


San Martin

by wunderbar



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Culture Shock, ExpatFamily!AU, Island life, Like really slow, Slow Burn, Some angst, and bard is the amused neighbor, foreign land, single dads, where thranduil is a total fish out of water
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-04-13 15:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4526799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wunderbar/pseuds/wunderbar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil uproots himself and his young son to start afresh in a place thousands of miles away from home. What he doesn't count on, however, is the blatant foreignness of it all. Fortunately for him, his new neighbor and his kids are more than happy to show him the ropes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a Monday when they arrive in San Martin. Ten thousand miles of travel on both land and air comes to a stop here: a provincial seaside town in a small country in the South Pacific, where Thranduil has never been, knows nobody, and does not speak the language. He’s read about it yes, has done ample research and has memorized statistics, but as the plane descended and revealed the realities of patches of semi-developed land, three-fourths of which is surrounded by water, and with nary a building taller than 4 storeys in sight, his heart pace quickened and he wondered how much it would be to just reverse this entire decision altogether.

For one thing, San Martin is horrendously _hot._

He will never forget that moment they first stepped out onto the tarmac from the plane. It was not the soft, warm breezes he’d expected, as the glossy guidebooks he’d consulted had described; the heat felt like an actual physical assault. 7AM and already the air was sticky and hung over them like a heavy blanket, urging Thranduil to quickly peel off the layers of clothing he and Legolas had put on for the 16-hour flight coming in. Legolas, thankfully, was compliant, and probably too jetlagged to even have a clue what was going on. By the time he had stripped himself and his son down to only a single shirt and trousers, the fabric of his button-down was already sticking to the skin on the small of his back. In addition, he was already getting a budding headache.

They’re in the rental car now that Thranduil had pre-ordered and it’s mercifully cool, although the interior smells like stale crisps. They have no carseat ready despite him telling them beforehand that he’s traveling with a young child, but Thranduil is too exhausted to argue and unpack Legolas’ own. To make do, he sits at the back behind the driver, wrapping his arms protectively around his son who sits, heavy and docile – his living, breathing anchor, in his lap. It’s still a half hour ride to their new residence, and Thranduil watches the rural scenery with disinterest as it whizzes by. He has never seen so many coconut trees in his life.

“Ada,” Legolas suddenly whines, uncomfortable at possibly everything. It’s the kind of whine that makes Thranduil feel like he’s a terrible father, dragging his young son to God-knows-where to do God-knows-what. He looks down and Legolas reaches out for him, wrapping his small arms around his father’s neck in that terrible, clingy way four-year-olds are wont to do when they’re about to have a meltdown with an unknown cause. Thranduil knows this, and rubs his son’s back in slow circles to soothe him, shushing gently into his ear. It doesn’t work, however, and minutes later, Legolas is a sobbing, wriggling mess in his father’s arms, pushing away when Thranduil attempts to hold him close while simultaneously wanting to be cooed and fussed over which, honestly, Thranduil has no patience for.

“Dear heart,” he murmurs, internally wishing for a miracle for his son’s unsolicited tantrum to cease. His headache has grown, he’s _sweaty_ and can do nothing about it, and tendrils of his hair are sticking uncomfortably to his nape. All in all he already feels like shit, and the day has just started on this side of the world. “Darling, ssh. Ssshhh.”

Legolas sobs as though a tragedy has befallen them, and Thranduil briefly wonders if he isn’t just expressing what he himself can’t. His son is inconsolable, repeating “Ada” over and over, unable to coherently articulate his distress. The front of his shirt is soaked through with tears but he holds Legolas against his chest, brushing soft flaxen hair out of his eyes and off of his sweaty forehead, and bounces his knee to comfort him. He tries to clear his mind despite the chaos, wanting nothing more than a shower and a strong cup of coffee in order to survive the next 24 hours.

The roads get rougher as they turn from the main thoroughfare and onto a smaller street, and here Thranduil sees the houses up close for the first time. They’re lined up along both sides in a variety of shapes, sizes, colors, and conditions. Tin roofs and concrete walls mostly, some with a splash of paint while others have been left with the dull gray of cement. Most are gated, although Thranduil briefly wonders what they’re gated _for_ if not to just mark the property line. It’s certainly no upper-class neighborhood but then, Elrond _had_ told him San Martin has no such thing.

The car eventually slows to a stop. They’re in the middle of a cramped street that’s only wide enough to fit one lane, and the moving van is up ahead, its massive size acting as a stopper to anyone attempting to traverse through it. Thranduil can’t see their house yet and he cranes his neck with difficulty to see, momentarily forgetting he has a preschooler still clinging to him like a limpet. Legolas had thankfully quieted down the last ten minutes of the ride, but his breath hitches again as Thranduil makes to move, a warning of another bout of tears.

“Ada, noooo,” Legolas moans, quickly becoming upset again as Thranduil maneuvers him so that they can alight the car.

“Sshhh, it’s alright, little leaf.” Thranduil gathers his leather satchel that’s momentarily storing their discarded clothes from the airport, as well as some of Legolas’ snacks, and secures his son with his other arm. In his haste, he’s forgotten it’s his left one, and he nearly drops Legolas as soon as they’re upright, the familiar pain shooting down his side like lightning traveling through his scars. A gasp of pain comes unabated from his lips and he only manages to switch the grip he has on his son to his other arm, letting the satchel instead drop towards the dusty ground instead with a heavy _thump._ Legolas starts screaming bloody murder soon after, his cries so distressed and terribly frightened that Thranduil’s own distress increases, making the pain down his side flare so viciously that he can barely see straight.

“Whoa! Whoa!”

He’s not all too sure what happens next. One second, Legolas is in his hold and the next he’s not. The cries are increasing in volume and Thranduil is certain he’s going to simultaneously go deaf from the noise and blind from the pain.

“Whoa, easy there. Are you all right? I’ve got your son so you don’t need to worry about dropping him.”

Someone’s hand is suddenly on his back and Thranduil’s senses sharpen and focus at the unfamiliar touch, his mind wary and crackling with warning. He snaps his eyes open and attempts to locate his son, which is easy enough. Legolas is red-faced and screaming in another man’s hold, although he doesn’t struggle against him. The man in question is peering at Thranduil worriedly, seemingly unperturbed that a child that’s not his is wailing in his ear. His hand is still on Thranduil’s back, and the small patch of fabric that makes contact with his skin feels enflamed.

“Take it easy,” the stranger says. His voice makes Thranduil think of waves breaking on the shore. “Did you hurt yourself?”  
  
“I’m fine,” Thranduil says, although his statement comes out as half a hitched breath. Pain is still lancing through him but it’s already more manageable. He straightens, and his vision clears. His sight of the man is more focused now: short dark cropped hair, laugh lines, the kind of half-stubble that makes you want to ask whether or not he grows it on purpose or just forgets to shave on random days. He also has a faded farmer’s tan, visible underneath the wifebeater he’s wearing over cargo shorts. Not a local, Thranduil decides. Definitely not. If not the soft lilting accent, the rust-orange Esgaroth Warriors baseball cap the stranger is wearing gives him away entirely.

“Warriors fan?” he asks, straining his voice to carry over Legolas’ din. The stranger’s eyes seem to light up.

“You _know_ the Warriors?” Thranduil notices for the first time that the man is rocking Legolas in an attempt to comfort him. The gesture makes him trust the stranger a bit more. “How…? Do you play?”

“Me? No.” He really was never a fan of playing under the sun, or of heat, in general. A tide of annoyance washes over him as he feels sweat trickle down his temple. He can almost hear himself sizzling. “I never signed up for Little League but I was quite a fan.”  
  
At this, the stranger looks absolutely elated. “Oh wow. I haven’t met anyone else but me the past two years who even _knew_ where Esgaroth was, let alone that it has a major league team.”

Thranduil nods, means to chat a little more, but Legolas starts reaching out for him and he obliges, using his good arm this time, if only to get him to calm down so nobody would attempt to call the police for disturbing the peace. Thranduil can tell by his cries that he’s not so much afraid of the stranger as he is terrified of what has just happened, that he’d hurt his father. The stranger himself smiles as he watches Thranduil masterfully pacify his son, crossing his arms over his chest now that they’re devoid of blubbering four-year-old.

“I miss those years,” the man says fondly. Thranduil spares him a glance.

“How many?”

“Three.” The man beams, obviously proud. He seems the man to be easily impressed by the simplest things, his emotions dancing across his face like ripples on water. “My youngest is seven, but no longer nearly as small as I still want her to be.” He motions towards Legolas. “You?”

“Just this one.” Legolas’ cries have softened to sighing now and the occasional hiccupping. He peers at Bard curiously while sucking on his thumb, his eyes wide and inquisitive. Thranduil almost does his usual habit of moving his son’s hand away from his mouth but decides to let him have this moment, if only to make up for the hellishly long ride they’ve endured and the awful weather they now face. The air is thicker now, and feels like soup. Thranduil wipes at Legolas’ face with his sleeve. Just standing on the street has left dirt streaks on his son’s cheeks; Thranduil is mildly horrified but makes an effort not to show it.

“Well he has a good set of lungs on him. Would probably make a good swimmer, if he isn’t already.” The stranger glances towards the movers, who are busy transporting boxes from the truck and into the inside of the house adjacent. Thranduil can’t help but peer towards what’s supposedly their new home, just to make sure he isn’t on the losing end of the house lottery. The stranger probably sees the worry on his face and breaks into an easy smile.

“Don’t worry, it isn’t haunted,” he chuckles. “They’ve also recently renovated it.”

Thranduil supposes the house isn’t too bad. It’s one of the more decent-looking ones on the block, save for the pseudo-jungle overtaking more than half the front yard. A lush variety of trees and shrubs give the squat concrete bungalow ample shade, but also make for a lot of shadows, leaving a large portion of the property shrouded. The gate fencing it off is dark metal spires that have currently been flung open to let the movers in, although the access does not make it still seem all that welcoming. All in all, their new home looks exactly how he feels: pensive and waiting and perhaps just a little bit lonely.

“I don’t know what you mean by renovation,” Thranduil says, eyeing the overgrown vegetation, “but I’m not sure it’s implanting half a dozen jungle plants into what was supposed to be an ordinary yard.”

To his surprise, the other man lets out a bark of a laugh. Thranduil must have looked startled because he looks almost immediately apologetic.

“Forgive me, I’ve missed that brand of humour. Haven’t really had a neighbor here I could converse with…not that they don’t speak English, of course. It’s just…” He thrusts his hand forward, perhaps to stop himself from saying anything further. The skin around his eyes crinkle as he smiles. “I’m Bard Bowman. Welcome to San Martin.”

Thranduil shakes his hand, forcing his grip to be tighter despite the low thrumming pain that’s still coursing through his nerves. “Thranduil Greenleaf. My son, Legolas.”

“On mission or assignment?” Bard inquires.

“You can say that,” Thranduil says, slightly surprised his new neighbor knows the jargon. “You work in development?”

Bard rattles the name of the biggest development bank in the region. “Rural development specialist. We have a project ongoing about sustainable development for coastal areas.”

Thranduil really shouldn’t be surprised; after all, San Martin is the kind of place that would be sniffed out by the big development banks in order to be ‘saved’. Bleeding-hearts that want to thrust money to unknowing governments and even more clueless people in order to clear their conscience. He’s worked too long in the sector to be rattled or excited by Bard’s words, although he does note that Bard actually seems genuine in his noble intentions.

“You’re on assignment?” he asks, curiosity getting the better of himself.

“Yep. Three years. Now on my second.” Bard puts his hands on his hips, a wide grin on his face. “It’s been a wild ride, I’ll tell you that, especially with kids.”  
  
“They’ve adjusted though?” Because that’s Thranduil’s biggest worry. He has no idea whether Legolas will adjust to here, if he ever will.

“They did fairly quickly, yes. They speak some of the language now, more than I can ever learn probably. My youngest is nearly fluent. My oldest and my second have now developed a palate for things like bitter gourd salad and goat stew, something they would have probably never learned back home. Plus,” Bard leans over conspiratorially, “I’ve learned the delivery schedule of the supermarket so I know _exactly_ when the Cheerios and Blue Mountain beer arrive.”

The easy way in which the other man speaks calms Thranduil’s frayed nerves. Bard is unhurried and seems at ease with himself, somewhat fitting into this ramshackle coastal town despite his current work. Thranduil means to talk longer, preferably while splayed out in a dark air-conditioned room while taking notes on how he’s supposed to survive out here, but Legolas starts whimpering again and his arm is still hurting and he’s still a sweaty, sticky, overheated mess.

“You’re more than welcome to camp out at our house first while the movers get your stuff in,” Bard offers, probably sensing his distress. Thranduil shakes his head. Although the man is nice, he isn’t in the mood to socialize, especially when he’s two steps away from getting heatstroke while still being severely jetlagged.

“You’re very kind, but maybe another time.” He rubs Legolas’ back.

“Tired huh? No problem. We’re just over there,” Bard points to the house across the street from his: another bungalow but with a red roof and white concrete walls, fenced in by a low red gate which is also flung wide open. A lone, dusty four-wheel drive is parked in the one-car garage, and Thranduil doesn’t miss that it has local plates on rather than diplomatic ones, which he knows Bard should have. There are an assortment of items on the other man’s lawn, ranging from slippers to Nerf guns, a clear evidence of children living in the home, but oddly no wife.

Thranduil feels his heart clench at the thought. No, he isn’t going to ask.

“…so if you ever need anything, a cup of sugar, some butter…don’t be shy.”

Bard doesn’t seem to have noticed his few seconds of being distracted. Thranduil manages a small smile at his new neighbor, already feeling a budding kinship.

“Appreciate it.”

“I’ll leave you two to it then.” He notices Bard glancing at his left shoulder and then watches as he raises his hand in farewell. “If you need me I’ll be cleaning up after three messy kids and then hopefully find some time later to do my actual day job.”

He watches as Bard ambles back into his own house, automatically picking up the child’s slippers haphazardly strewn across the lawn as he passes and propping them up against the wall by the coiled garden hose. Despite external factors not changing, Thranduil’s spirits feel a bit lighter, and something like relief passes through him like a wave. He chose this location exactly for its remoteness and sheer distance from his old life, but even he has to admit he’s more than a little fearful for what the next day will bring. Bard is a practically a stranger but Thranduil already knows he can trust him. If anything, it makes him stand a little straighter and the pain in his left side seems to cease. Elrond would of course be highly against the thought but it’s not him starting a new life on a sun-battered, godforsaken island, is he?

“Ada, let’s go home,” Legolas whimpers, shaking Thranduil out of his thoughts. He has never been a clingy child until recently. Thranduil wonders now whether this move is really something that will benefit his son as he initially thought. He still doesn’t know, but he makes up his mind, if only for Legolas’ sake, that he will try his damnedest.

“Okay, little leaf,” he whispers. “Okay.”

Heart thudding against his ribcage but spirit now resolute, Thranduil gathers his satchel from the dusty ground, gives his son a kiss on his forehead, and squares his shoulders before walking towards their waiting new home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only explanation I have for this is I work with expats and am in the development sector.
> 
> If you have any questions, just hop onto my tumblr [wunderbarduil] and ask!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard doing friendly, neighborly things.

Tilda’s classes are only until 2PM on Mondays. Something about the younger children needing to be eased back into the rigors of academic life after taking a weekend break. As an academic, Bard thinks the idea is utter nonsense, especially given the amount of tuition the school asks him to pay; as a father, he thoroughly enjoys the opportunity of having more time with his children, and so does his duty of picking his daughter up just after the school bell has rung to signal their being done for the day.

He sticks out like a sore thumb in the crowd of mothers that are also on pick-up duty, but Bard has never really minded. Parents are required to stay in ‘The Dugout’ until the children are released, and are encouraged to socialize among each other. Because of the school crowd, Bard has picked up more than a few helpful homemaker and child-rearing tips, things he would have never really managed to know back in Esgaroth. They never ask about his wife, but Bard doesn’t doubt that her absence is already a well-established fact. Three children in three different grade levels on a tiny island doesn’t leave room for a lot of secrets.

“Da!”

Tilda always acts like she’s surprised to see him there every Monday to fetch her. Bard automatically puts the progress report he was reading away as soon as he hears her; his youngest is running towards him, arms flung wide and uniform askew, and is now barreling towards his direction at full speed. He opens his arms and she crashes into his chest, almost sending them both tumbling to the ground.

“Hello, darling,” Bard greets her fondly.

As it is every afternoon, the braids he so painstakingly does each morning have come undone, and Tilda’s small face is framed by clumps of her unruly brown hair. He smiles as he listens to his youngest babble, his fingers quickly undoing the braids and smoothing down knots. By the time Tilda is finished reporting, he’s tied her hair up in a bun atop her head.

“…and then we have to answer a worksheet for Maths, and I need sunscreen for gym tomorrow, and we _might_ be able to go to Coral Island if everyone gets a high grade for the exam. Bain and his class went before, Da, didn’t they, and they said it was _wonderful._ ”

Bard nods. Coral Island is also one of the marine-protected areas he frequents for work, and is a half-hour boat ride from San Martin. “Coral Island is lovely, but surely I’d need to go with you?”

“Yes!” Tilda’s eyes shine with mirth. “I told them you’re always there as well, and you can show us around.”

Bard laughs; leave it to his children to always be two steps ahead of him. He kisses her forehead and takes her backpack to sling it over his shoulder. Tilda slides her small hand into his and they begin walking towards the parking lot together.

He takes Tilda to their usual snack spot. Coco Jacks is a ramshackle shake stand near the research wing of the San Martin University and prides itself on serving only two things: ice-cold shakes mixed with coconut milk and whatever fruit is in season, and golden-brown banana and cassava fritters. He sits Tilda down at one of the benches underneath the shade of the faded beach umbrellas and orders their usual. By the time he’s back with a paper plate of fritters still glistening with oil in one hand and sweating mugs of mango-banana shakes in the other, his daughter has taken her homework out and has already started on it dutifully. He cuts the fritters up with a fork, blows on it so Tilda doesn’t burn her tongue, and feeds her as they go through basic multiplication problems together.

“You’re getting very good at this,” he praises her as she finishes the last problem with none of his assistance. “You’re also getting to be very good at finishing your own food.”

He points towards her now-empty mug and the nearly-empty plate of fritters. Out of all his children, Tilda had been the most difficult to cook food for after they had arrived at the island. Thankfully, attending school and encountering the cooking of other mothers slowly weaned her off of Froot Loops and toast, much to Bard’s relief.  She still isn’t the easiest to feed, but there has definitely been progress.

“Maybe next time we don’t have to share anymore,” Bard tells her, giving her a sideways grin. Tilda lets out an overdramatic gasp and lunges towards him, clasping her hands around his neck and hanging off of his front like an oversized koala.

“No Daaa, I’m going to share everything with you foreverrrr,” she grins at him, and Bard feels his heart skip a beat as a shadow of his dead wife passes across their youngest child’s face. As quickly as it has come, it dissipates into the white afternoon sunlight, drowned quickly by Tilda’s lively giggles after she leans in and gives him a sloppy kiss.

Bard laughs although he nearly tumbles out of his seat. “All right, cheeky one. That’s enough for today. Shall we pick up some dinner then?”

There are only three grocery stores on the island, and the nearest to them is the one nearest to the school, a walking distance from Coco Jacks. They are only small operations: squat, two-story, whitewashed bread box-shaped buildings that offer necessities and the odd mix of imported items delivered only once a month. The man at the till is a middle-aged fellow named Manuel, who always gives the children a boiled sweet after shopping. Tilda is already handed one as soon as she walks in and is sucking on it as Bard leads them through the aisles.

“Da, didn’t we just do grocery shopping?” Tilda asks as he picks up one of the last boxes of Wheaties, a bag of pasta, a bag of rice, tinned corn, and a handful of fresh vegetables. “Why are you buying the same ones we just bought?”

Bard hums as he picks up a carton of milk. He hopes the new neighbors aren’t lactose-intolerant because there’s none of the wide varieties of products here. It took him three whole months before he even saw a carton of skim milk, and he has yet to see half-and-half.

“Somebody moved into the house in front of ours and I was wanting to do something nice for them while they’re settling in.”  
  
That catches Tilda’s attention. “Really? Do they have children?”

Bard smiles at her. Tilda is forever complaining about being the last of the brood. He doesn’t doubt she’d very much like a playmate, especially one who lived so close to them.

“Just one. A little boy. His name is Legolas.”

“Oh!” His daughter is as delighted as he suspected. “Can we meet them?”

“Maybe later. I’m buying them some supplies they might need.”

To be honest, he doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. He hardly knows the new neighbors and isn’t even aware of their food preferences. What if they’re vegetarian? Jewish? The concept of Kosher doesn’t even exist in San Martin. He reasons, as he grabs a tin of tomatoes, that it’s something he wishes somebody had done when they were the new family on the block. He didn’t see if Thranduil had a car and he doubts he would even know how to ride the local public transport. No, this is him doing a good deed.

Tilda insists they buy the neighbors peanut butter and jelly as well, _because everyone likes PB &J, Da, _and Bard relents, despite the peanut butter having a heinous markup because of its rarity. Manuel makes up for it by giving them a bundle of fresh sugarcane straight from the fields, a treat all three of his children go crazy for.

For his own family he picks up some fresh tilapia and a pound of clams from the market next door. He finishes off the shopping spree by buying freshly-baked French bread from the local bakery: one for his own brood and one for the new neighbors.

“That’s a lot of food, Da,” Tilda comments as they load up the SUV. Her fist is already tightly clamped around a sugarcane stalk. Bard hums in agreement but says nothing more.

The ride back home is uneventful and Tilda even manages to sneak in a short nap. When Bard finally pulls over in his garage and unbuckles his daughter from her seat, he’s surprised to see that the new neighbor ( _Thranduil,_ he recalls, rolling the name over in his mind) is out in his own yard, carrying a stack of folded-up boxes over to the large trash bin by the curb. Bard raises an arm in greeting, glad that he doesn’t have to go and ring the doorbell for him to deliver the food he’s bought.

“Thranduil!” he calls. The other man looks confused for a second, probably wondering who’s called his name. He looks up and his face visibly relaxes as Bard approaches, probably recognizing him from this morning’s encounter.

“Hello, Bard,” Thranduil says in a guarded but friendly way. He looks less harassed than he was when they first met, but it doesn’t make him look less exhausted. His hair, growing long and curling up against his nape, is a smooth pale blonde, the front of it shaggy but slicked back by fingers straight after a shower. The forest-green Henley he has on is rolled up to his elbows, and he’s wearing jogging pants with banded cuffs that look more fashionable than they are practical. “Pleasant to see you again.”

“You look like death warmed over,” Bard comments before he can stop himself. He doesn’t expect Thranduil to laugh but he does.

“I take it your diplomacy and tact are what got you carted off to here? Thank you for that unnecessary but honest remark.”

Bard smiles, glad for the openly sarcastic wit. “I know how it is. Kids and long plane rides…how’s Legolas?”

Thranduil motions towards the open front door; he can’t see much of the inside but he can hear the soft whir of several fans in motion. “I laid him down for a nap. The house is furnished, thank God. But I think he’d have been equally glad to fall asleep on the floor.”

“Da?”

Tilda’s voice makes him turn around, suddenly remembering that he hasn’t even unlocked the front door yet. His youngest is standing by their gate post, looking curiously at their new neighbor. He smiles and motions for her to come over; Tilda obeys immediately, conscientiously looking both ways before crossing the street before crossing the short distance between her and her father. Her hands are still sticky from sugarcane as she clasps his in them, and she uses Bard as a human shield from which she peers at Thranduil shyly.

“Darlin’, meet our new neighbor, Mr. Greenleaf.” He tries to coax her from her hiding place but Tilda remains stubbornly in her spot.

“Thranduil, please,” Thranduil says, giving Tilda a small but warm smile. “And you are…?”

“Tilda Bowman,” Bard’s youngest says, chewing on her lower lip as she does when nervous. Thranduil crouches down so that they’re eye level and then offers her a large pale hand to shake. Bard is about to warn him of how sticky Tilda’s hands are but he doesn’t react fast enough: in seconds, his new neighbor’s hands have enveloped his daughter’s own and are giving it a gentle handshake. He doesn’t look the least bit perplexed by the obvious stickiness, although he does give Bard a mischievous look.

“I see someone’s gotten their dessert early in the day,” he says, although not condescendingly.

“It’s sugarcane,” Bard sighs. “Sorry about that.”

“No harm done,” Thranduil says before standing up again to his full height. “Nice to meet you, Tilda.”

“Da says you have a son?” Tilda asks, getting bolder now. When Thranduil nods, her mouth splits into a wide grin. “May I play with him?”

“Perhaps when he’s up and about. He’s sleeping at the moment, but I’ll be sure to make him meet you soon.” Thranduil touches the top of her head in a fond manner and Tilda nods understandingly.

“That’s all right.” She then looks up at her father, tugging at his shirt insistently. “Da, the food!”

At this, Thranduil looks confused, and Bard’s eyes widen as he remembers.

“Food?”

“Yeah, hang on a minute…” Bard says, and after a quick instruction to Tilda to stay put, he rushes back to his parked vehicle and gathers the two large bags of grocery items he’s bought from the grocer. Thranduil looks utterly bewildered as he offers it to him once he’s crossed the street once more.

“I thought you and Legolas might need some groceries first to tide you over as you’re settling in. I didn’t know what you’d like so I got a bit of fruit and veg and bread, and some tinned stuff.” Bard is suddenly feeling ridiculously shy, and part of him wants to kick himself. “You’re not…Jewish or vegan or anything are you?”

Thranduil’s expression quickly goes from bemusement to shock as soon as he realizes what Bard is offering him. “I…you really didn’t have to do this.”

“No, but see, where I come from we would usually offer some food to new neighbors,” Bard is close to babbling, but he doesn’t really care, “and since you’re new and have no idea where to get things, I thought it would be nice…um…I don’t really know what you like to eat so I didn’t want to offer you like a pie or something. It’s something I wish somebody had done when we first moved here, so thought I’d do it for someone else.”

He feels equal parts embarrassed and exhilarated, that kind of feeling when you know you’ve done something right and good although it’s not anything typical. Thankfully, Tilda is there to break the awkwardness, with her helpfully pointing out that she helped pick some items herself and she hopes the Greenleafs would like them. Thranduil finally nods and seems to accept the favor.

“Thank you. That is truly very kind of you,” he says sincerely. “I’m…quite shocked to be honest. I came here not really expecting to be friends with anyone so fast, if at all.”

Bard notes that his voice has a melancholy tone to it, something that speaks of a deeper pain. He also notices that although Thranduil has now received both bags and are carrying them in both arms, the grip on his left one is weaker, reminding him of the incident that morning when he witnessed the other man almost dropping his son. He decides not to probe for now but is careful to watch if the other man’s grip might slip again on his left.

“It’s no big deal,” Bard says, because it really isn’t. “If you want, you and Legolas are welcome to have dinner with us tonight as well. We’re having fried tilapia and clam soup.”

Thranduil looks grateful but shakes his head. “We’ll probably be knocked out by then, but thank you for the invite. When we settle in your family should come for dinner. As a thanks for welcoming us most kindly.”

“We’ll be glad to show you around as well when you’re ready. I would advise though for you to have a car…” Bard trails of uncertainly, unsure if he’s overstepped now. “A lot of the shops are a 10-15 minute drive. The school, San Martin University, is a half-hour trek. It runs from preschool to university level. That’s where all my children go to.”

An amused smile stretches across Thranduil’s face. “I was wondering the same. I’ll be working as a research consultant for the university. Professor Grey has promised a car for my use, so I don’t think that will be a problem.”

“That’s good.” Bard knows Gandalf Grey, the crotchety old dean of the Social Sciences wing at the university. A little kooky and bizarre, but a nonetheless respectable and wholesome fellow. He was one of the pioneer researchers sent by one of the biggest development banks. Although their assignments are only supposed to last less than five years, Gandalf has succeeded in staying on for the last fifty, running economic reports and making successful developmental recommendations to the government of the small island nation like nobody’s business.

He regains his composure and decides he’s bothered Thranduil enough for an afternoon. “Well, I’d better get my own work finished off and the real work of being a father started.” Thranduil nods at this, a sympathetic look on his face. “If you need anything, just knock on our door.”

Thranduil gives him a slight bow of his head, an old-world gesture that Bard has not seen in ages but looks strangely natural being done by the other man. “Thank you again, Bard. I really am grateful for all your help.”

Bard smiles. “You’re welcome.” He nudges his daughter. “Say bye now, Tilda.”

Tilda beams up at their new neighbor, her smile all gums and tiny teeth.

“Goodbye, Mister Thranduil! It was nice meeting you.”

“You too, Miss Tilda,” Thranduil says, his expression soft. Bard gives him one last wave before leading Tilda back towards their own house. Bard doesn’t even notice his slightly elevated heart rate until he steps back inside the cool confines of his own living room.

“He’s really handsome, isn’t he, Da?” Tilda asks as they mill about, falling into the routine of starting dinner as she readies her afternoon bath.

“Hm?” Bard says absent-mindedly, clearing his laptop from the kitchen counter to make space for dinner preparations.

“Mister Thranduil. He’s very handsome.”

Bard almost gapes at her but thinks better of it, instigating a quick chase around the kitchen that ends with him holding her upside down as she squeals and giggles.

“More handsome than your Da?” he teases, burying his nose in the soft flesh of her stomach.

“YES!” she squeals and shrieks in delight as he tickles her further. “I mean NO! You are the most handsomest, Da!”

“What’re the magic words?”

“Stinky poo!”

Bard can’t help but laugh himself as Tilda nearly falls from his grip, cackling like mad.

“NO! One more try or you’ll be tickled forever.”

“I love you! I love you! I love you!”

Bard bundles up his youngest in his arms, her still gasping and squealing, him with reddened ears and flushed cheeks. She leans against him, still giggling, and then attempts to pin him to the floor. He obliges her, them rolling about on the wooden floor like puppies until Tilda declares herself too dirty to continue and promptly leaves him to bathe, although leaving the bathroom door slightly ajar as is their rule, in case she slips and falls. Bard remains lying down, heart still beating fast against his ribcage as he listens to the soft patter of water hitting tile. The sound reminds him of caverns and glens, deep lush forests and rumbling mountains. For some reason his mind from there drifts to pale golden hair and cool blue eyes. His heart stutters.

He shuts his eyes and shifts to his side, excusing his elevated heart rate to the roughhousing. He does not think of Thranduil Greenleaf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot imagine Thranduil having long hair while being on an island (because he is going to die of heatstroke and he isn't so dumb that he's NOT going to cut his hair before going someplace that averages 28-35 degrees). The hair he has is similar to Lee circa SDCC 2014. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long, late nights in the Greenleaf household.

It’s 2 AM, four days after their arrival, and Thranduil is wide awake.  
  
It isn’t that he isn’t exhausted. The past few days have been nothing but a blur of recalibrating their body clocks, adjusting to the constant humidity, and unpacking their various belongings, placing remnants of their old lives and finding them spots in new wardrobes and drawers, onto new shelves and tables.

They haven’t really brought much, to be quite honest; most of their larger furniture and other heirloom items are locked up in storage back in Greenwood, but some things, like Legolas’ stuffed lamb that he’s had since his babyhood and that one soft grey shirt that Lindariel liked to cuddle against whenever he wore it, bring back his grief so terribly and suddenly that he has to stop and remember how it is to breathe.

Legolas, unaware of his present struggle, mumbles incoherently in his sleep from his spot beside him. He turns towards his father like a flower searching for the sun, reaching out across the wide expanse of tangled cotton sheets as if to make sure he’s there, before latching on to the worn edges of Thranduil’s old Greenwood State Uni shirt. If he had his own way, Thranduil would forego wearing a shirt to make him feel less suffocated by the cloying warmth, but it would only leave his left side exposed where his son could accidentally kick it. As a compromise, he keeps a small pillow by his more vulnerable side that he lets Legolas curl up against as much as he wants, despite the uncomfortable heat.

He brushes Legolas’ soft golden curls with the tips of his fingers and watches as he sleeps. A low-burning shame courses through him upon realizing that this is the version of his son he is familiar with the most, and that he is most comfortable with. Until the accident, the most time he spent with Legolas awake was when he would rush past him in the kitchen during the breakfast hour, stealing in a quick kiss or a tickle before Thranduil threw himself into work and endless research, coming back home only long after the moon had risen in the sky and Legolas was already miles away in sleep.

Lindariel would berate him gently for it but he wasn’t entirely a bad father. He would send messages and pictures, would do quick calls during dinner to make sure the rascal wasn’t running his mother to the ground. Legolas was always a joyful child, albeit with a mischievous streak, but in recent months, it’s been nothing but endless tantrums and upsets that have left both him and his son utterly spent and mostly exasperated with each other. He supposes the jet lag is somewhat making it easier for him now, with Legolas constantly curling up to sleep at odd hours and being too tired to put up a fight for too long (food, thankfully, isn’t one of their arguments because Bard has been a lifesaver and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are apparently one of Legolas’ favorite things to eat), but Thranduil knows there are still a lot of hurdles they have to get over, together, especially now that they’ve moved somewhere wholly unfamiliar.

He thinks for a second about Bard and Tilda and nurtures the small hope that maybe, just maybe, they can help ease the ache and homesickness. His friendly neighbor hasn’t come knocking as of late, but Thranduil knows the other man has his own brood to raise, in addition to the amount of work and research Bard must already be doing. He dismisses the Bowmans as being pleasant enough, but Thranduil would never in a million years impose on them.

Sleep continues to evade him even long after the half-hour mark, and with a long sigh, Thranduil sits up in bed, his skin sticky with sweat and the heat still pressing against him like thick cotton wool. He runs a hand through his hair, still damp after his third shower that day. There isn’t a single air-conditioner in the house, but every room has a fan, three of which he’s already dragged into the master bedroom to attempt to cool the air. It doesn’t take long before two of them break down, although he’s uncertain whether or not it’s due to the fans’ hardware or just the power supply. One still works but is currently blowing gusts of warm air towards the bed. It’s the most uncomfortable yet bizarre feeling he’s ever experienced: having a fan but still sweating, and everything sticking to him as though he’s flypaper.

He double-checks that Legolas is secure enough to not end up falling off the bed before quickly and quietly slipping out of the room while leaving the door ajar. There’s a cross breeze entering through the large screen windows in the living room and out through the windows in the rear of the house. He pulls off his shirt as soon as he crosses the threshold to the living room, sighing in relief as cooler air hits his skin and ignoring the telltale prickle as the long scars down his side start realizing their being exposed to the elements. The air is thick with salt and the faraway promise of rain; the tail-end of July guarantees nothing but warm nights and hot afternoons, a never-ending cycle of oppressive humidity that often makes Thranduil want to dunk his head in cold water at least five times a day.

He crosses his arms and peers out through the blinds at the quiet street outside, sees the houses bathed in the moon’s soft blue glow. Across the street, even Bard’s house is dark, although the light on the porch beyond the closed gate shines a warm yellow. From somewhere far off, he can hear the dull roar of waves crashing on the shore. The loud hum of crickets and cicadas from the depths of his own overgrown garden act as an accompaniment to the natural symphony.

 _This is a place Lindariel would have loved,_ he thinks before he can stop himself. Ironic, because isn’t that why they’re here? To live in a place where no memories existed? A savage ache grows in his chest and he wonders, for the nth time that year, what it would have been like if things had been different.

“Ada?”

Thranduil starts and lets in a breath, unaware he’s been holding it. He turns; Legolas is in the doorway of the bedroom, a tumble of curls covering up half his face. He’s clutching his stuffed lamb to his chest.

“Are you sad?” he asks, quietly, pensively. Thranduil doesn’t know why it should matter. He opens his arms to receive his son and Legolas toddles over to him, careful to lean onto Thranduil’s right side.  

“Are you sad, Ada?” Legolas repeats, head hot against Thranduil’s bare chest, small fingers gently poking at his skin. Thranduil pulls off his son’s sweat-damp shirt and uses it to push back unruly curls from his son’s eyes. He breathes in Legolas’ scent of honey soap and sugar-spun dreams as he plants a soft kiss on the toddler’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Thranduil says, voice soft but nonetheless sincere. He sees no point in lying to his son. Legolas seems to understand and snuggles against him.

“Can we sleep here?” his son murmurs, already halfway through to drifting back to sleep. The breeze has picked up and it’s now reasonably cooler in the living room. Thranduil nods and makes his way towards the sofa, a behemoth of a thing comprised of a heavy oak frame and surprisingly soft cushions. It’s been a favorite spot for many of Legolas’ naps throughout the day. His son lets out a happy squeak as he realizes his father is finally sharing it with him. Thranduil reclines with Legolas between his right side and the back of the sofa. He throws his son’s blanket that he’d left from that afternoon over the both of them.

“Sleep, dear heart,” Thranduil says, patting Legolas’ bottom in a lulling rhythm. It was an effective enough technique when Legolas was a baby, and Lindariel was forever taking photos of them…

“Ada.” Legolas says, and his voice is potent enough to banish the shadows slowly creeping like tendrils into Thranduil’s heart. His grip on his son tightens.

“Mm?”

“Nana is gone,” he says, his tone somber. Thranduil closes his eyes.

“Yes.”

“But you’re still here…?” Legolas asks, and although Thranduil cannot see his face, he knows it is tinged with fear. The two months Legolas had to live with Elrond while Thranduil was in hospital after the accident were the worst the two of them had to live through, and Thranduil still cannot fully forgive himself for giving his son cause to think that _both_ his Ada and Nana were never coming home.

Thranduil turns to his side, envelops Legolas in a brief embrace.

“Always,” he says, means it both as a statement and a promise. Seemingly satisfied at his answer, he feels Legolas nod against his chest, because what else is higher in a child’s regard than a parent’s word?

“Okay.”

Thranduil listens with eyes closed as his son’s breaths gradually deepen as he once more drifts off into peaceful slumber. He counts them the way he used to do when Legolas was an infant, anchoring every thought into each soft inhale-exhale, until he no longer realizes that he himself has tumbled headlong into sleep, snuggled deep under the large fleece blanket amidst moonlight and cricket song. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the wait! Work ate me up omg.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early-morning calls and unexpected breakfast guests.

Bard has never been a morning person.

As a child he used to sleep through alarms so efficiently his mother had to douse him with water to get him up and ready for school. In university he arranged his schedule in such a way that his classes wouldn’t start until early afternoon, with the rationalization that the extra hours of sleep in the morning made him more productive (it really didn’t, but he got top marks all the same). It wasn’t until parenthood set in that he started rising at the shrill call of the alarm, at first to heat up Sigrid’s milk, then moving up to burping Bain at certain hours, before graduating to waking up _extra_ early, this time sans the alarm, to give the household a head start so nobody ends up being late for school.

After 15 years of it – the last 5 of which have all been done solo and will probably remain to be until the foreseeable future – Bard has gotten used to the routine, although it doesn’t make him any less tired. Fridays of this new school year are particularly challenging, it being the last day of the week coupled by the extra activities the children have successfully crammed into their schedules, both academic and extra-curricular.

He rises at 4:30 AM to fix breakfast for all, starting with Sigrid who has swim practice at 5:30. He checks homework while he butters toast and scrambles eggs, praising his teenager at how concise her Chemistry lab reports have become before being on the receiving end of a hasty kiss as her carpool to school arrives. He checks that Bain has packed all his soccer gear next, then makes sure to heat up some water for the bath. While Bain is bathing, he irons uniforms and searches YouTube for a new hairstyle Tilda might like. He plaits shower-wet hair during breakfast, quizzes Bain on Eastern European capitals, stops Tilda from falling asleep into her cereal, and makes sure he signs all the children’s’ permission slips before shooing them out the door the moment the bus comes to pick them up at 6:30 to make it for the 7:00 registration.

By 6:35, the house is quiet, and Bard usually takes a moment to sink into the nearest cushioned seat to catch a quick nap to get his gears ready for his own work. He’d been doing exactly that the day Thranduil and Legolas had arrived, only the commotion made by the moving truck trundling down the street had woken him up. This time, he falls asleep as soon as he leans his head back, having seated himself in one of the armchairs in the living room. He doesn’t know exactly how long he stays asleep when he hears a sharp rapping that startles him awake, and he dazedly jumps to his feet to open the door, thinking it may be one of the children.

Needless to say, his new neighbor – wearing only pajama bottoms, red bedroom slippers in the shape of dragon feet, and what seems to be a large olive-green fleece blanket festooned with silver leaves, draped over his bare shoulders – is the last person Bard ever expected to see on his doorstep at nearly 7 AM on a Friday morning.

“Thranduil?” Bard says, blinking. He really can’t tell if it’s his imagination acting up due to lack of sleep because he honestly cannot think of a situation more ludicrous than what he’s seeing in front of him.

“Bard.” Thranduil says, his pale blue eyes icy and seething in the muted gray light of dawn. Despite his ridiculous outfit he still manages to cut an imposing figure. “For heaven’s _sake_ , man.”

It’s now Bard’s turn to frown. “Pardon? Did I offend you in any way?”

The other man shakes his head, his tousled light blonde hair quickly falling as a sweep down his forehead. He looks faded and whitewashed in the early morning light, the strong, sharp angles of his white face accentuated by bluish shadows that speak of long harried nights and a deep unspoken sadness. Despite it however, he remains imperious, making it a point to stand at full height, his expression one of extreme irritation. Bard isn’t intimidated. He crosses his arms and squares his shoulders.

“We’ve only _just gotten_ to sleep, and your blasted _chickens_ are crowing loud enough to wake up the entirety of the island!” Thranduil says testily. Something moves on his shoulder and Bard realizes it must be Legolas under the blanket, still asleep, his father having hauled him from their own home.

Bard stares at him for several seconds, wondering if the other man has actually gone mad, but then pauses and listens more carefully, forcing himself to hear sounds he’s gotten so used to he’s learned to tune them out.

From somewhere beyond their street, a rooster gives a lusty crow to signal the breaking dawn. And then, as if triggered, several others start crowing in unison, until the one nearest to them gives off his own loud call, complete with the sound of the rapid flapping of wings. At this, Thranduil visibly glares at him, as if _he_ were the one crowing.

“Ah,” he says, understanding now.

“‘Ah’ is an understatement. Could you kindly silence your farm so my son and I can get some sleep?”

Bard relaxes, moving his arms so his hands are now resting on his hips. “Afraid I don’t have a _farm,_ Master Greenleaf, but you might want to try knocking on the doors of every other house on the island. The roosters are a mainstay. The national sport is cockfighting.”

Thranduil shocked expression is a sight to behold. “You’re joking.”

Bard shakes his head. “Afraid not. I had to get used to them as well during my first year, but you learn to tune them out. That, or you get earplugs. You never heard them the past few days?”

“We fell asleep in the living room last night, Legolas and I,” the taller man says, his posture now drooping. “We never heard them in the bedroom, but the inner rooms feel like a damned furnace, even at night. No air-conditioning.”

Bard nods sympathetically. He knows the struggle all too well. His penchant for Esgaroth’s cooler, more temperate climate had made their first year seem like torture. Even during Esgaroth’s highest summers you can always depend on a cool breeze. “You’re from Esgaroth?” he asks, before curiosity gets the better of him. He remembers how Thranduil had also recognized his home team.

Thranduil shakes his head. “Greenwood,” he says, his tone tinged with something like longing. Bard isn’t surprised to hear that the other man is from the neighboring city-state next to his own, given his carefully-enunciated vowels and regal ways. Though Greenwood houses the more affluent, and largely less sociable, set, the two have good ties with each other. His children used to attend the prep school there.

Realizing he has more in common with Thranduil than he initially thought, Bard gives him a grin and pulls open his door wider. He stands to the side to give them space to slip through. “I have air-conditioning in the living room. Had it set up during our first year. I can give you names and numbers of people you can contact to get that done for your own house. You wanna come in while I get them and maybe I can also get you two some breakfast?”

Thranduil seems surprised at his offer. It’s certainly not a typical response to when somebody just makes a commotion at your door at bloody ass-o’-clock in the morning.

“Er…” the taller man says, looking frozen in his spot.

“C’mon, and Legolas can sleep in one of the kids’ beds, or on the couch. I’ll get you some nice strong coffee, and a toast or two.”

He notices as Thranduil perks up slightly at the promise of caffeine. Bard watches as he glances back towards his own house.

“Did you lock your doors?” Bard inquires.

“Yes, but as you’ve noticed, I’m not even halfway _decent_.” Thranduil says, looking slightly annoyed that Bard has actually put him in the spot for him to even say it out loud.

“I noticed.” Bard smirks. He gestures towards the other man’s feet. “Nice slippers.”

Thranduil rolls his eyes. “It was a gag gift from my cousin. I haven’t fully unpacked yet.”

“C’mon, nobody actually cares what you look like at this hour. Well, until the sun is fully up maybe, and the ladies on the street start going about their chores. You’ll give them quite a show.”

“Shut up,” Thranduil growls, but does move to cross the threshold. He strides purposefully past Bard, one hand securing the blanket on his shoulders so it flaps behind him like a cape. “The numbers of these people you pertain to would be most helpful and I would greatly appreciate it.”

“Siddown,” Bard instructs him as he shuts the door to prevent any more cool air escaping. “I’ll get you your list and your coffee.”

To his surprise, Thranduil is compliant, possibly because of the quick comfort the air-conditioning provides. The insulation also provides a filter to block the neighbors’ rooster’s din. He pretends not to notice the small relieved sigh that escapes from the other man’s lips as he slides down onto the leather L-shaped couch, not minding it being littered with the children’s various detritus. He doesn’t relinquish his hold on Legolas, although Bard can see a glimpse of the child beneath the blanket, the toddler also shirtless, snuggled against his father’s bare chest.

He puts on a fresh pot of coffee and heads towards his bedroom to hunt down the list of contacts he’s accumulated throughout their stay, ranging from the best doctor on the island to the laundromat least capable of shrinking clothes. He compiles them, retypes, and prints them on a fresh sheet of paper before going back towards the living room where he finds Thranduil asleep, his head leaning back to rest on the top of couch. Bard decides he doesn’t look half as menacing as he did twenty minutes ago, with his expression utterly relaxed and his mouth even hanging slightly open.

He tiptoes around the other man, placing the list on the coffee table in front of him and heading towards the kitchen area to prepare a second batch of breakfast. He’s halfway through with making hash from last night’s leftover potatoes to pair with eggs when someone knocks on his door for the second time that morning, the rapping this time less frantic but more purposeful. Bard removes the pan from the stove and wipes his hands before answering.

A tall, wizened old man is standing on his doorstep, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes twinkling at him from underneath a large Panama hat. He would look like an ordinary ageing tourist, with his bright floral shirt and khaki shorts, his knobby knees and long pale legs, and his feet encased in socks and Birkenstocks, but the stance of the older man is wrought with a tenacity that makes even Bard slightly wary, and almost as if he were a schoolboy again being scrutinized by a headmaster. He doesn’t work directly under the older man, as they do not even belong to the same development institution, but Professor Gandalf Grey is not one anyone should take lightly, despite his age.

“Professor,” Bard says in greeting. He gives the older man a welcoming smile. He can’t say he knows why Gandalf is suddenly there without prior warning; the old man does have a habit of turning up when you least expect it. “Lovely to see you in these parts.”

“Pleasant morning to you, my boy. I do hope you’ve got some breakfast on as I’m positively famished,” Gandalf says with a small wink. Bard steps inside to let him in, not even bothering to mention Thranduil’s presence in his home. He won’t put it past the older man to already know somehow; it was sometimes quite disconcerting how Gandalf would just seem to be so in tune to all that’s happening in San Martin.

He heads back towards the kitchen area in time to see Gandalf slowly ambling his way towards the couch. Thranduil is still asleep, the commotion apparently not having awakened him. To Bard’s great surprise, Gandalf leans over the sleeping man and places a gentle hand on his face, before leaning over further so that their foreheads are nearly touching.

It’s a gesture that speaks of such intense familiarity that Bard has to look away to give them their privacy and concentrate on breakfast. Thranduil apparently stirs at this, given the sound of cotton scratching against leather, and Gandalf is suddenly speaking in the native tongue used in Greenwood and also heard in Esgaroth, his voice low yet sincere, the words addressed towards the other man.

“ _Celeborn told me. My dear boy,_ ” Gandalf says, “ _I am so very sorry._ ”

Thranduil says nothing, and Bard keeps his eyes averted, busying himself with buttering toast and frying tomatoes, careful to not look unless asked to. He pours coffee into three mugs and readies three plates. By the time he’s done placing all the breakfast items on all the plates, Thranduil is the one who calls him.

“Bard.”

He looks up, pretends he hasn’t heard what has been said. “Hm?”

Gandalf has taken a seat beside Thranduil and is keeping a hand on the lump on his shoulder that is Legolas. Whatever Gandalf is sorry for has had a tremendous effect on him, his mouth now set in a grim line and his eyes like open wounds, hollow and filled with an anguish that Bard cannot help but feel empathetic towards.

“Let me help you set that up. I wouldn’t want to impose. I just…I just need another blanket to cover Legolas with.”

Bard nods, feeling the changed air in the room. Thranduil doesn’t want to stay, but is going to, out of courtesy. He feels a twinge of sympathy for the man and resolves to make the rest of the morning with his two (three, if you count Legolas) guests at least run a bit more smoothly.

He gets a spare blanket from one of the girls’ rooms and presents it to the other man after he’s also cleared the various toys, books, and papers that take up the rest of the couch space. Legolas is extricated from his father and laid on the corner where it’s more difficult to fall off, and then covered with the blanket so he doesn’t get too cold. Thranduil keeps the larger fleece blanket on his shoulders, one hand keeping a firm hold on the corners by his throat so it doesn’t slide off. They move plates and mugs and utensils to the coffee table in silence. When everything is ready, Bard takes the spot beside Legolas while Thranduil sits on the child’s other side, leaving Gandalf still seated where he was.

“Well,” Bard says, giving his guests a small smile to make them feel more at ease. The tension that’s built up is ridiculous now, and he feels as though he’s caught in the middle of something he shouldn’t have been part in. Given the fact that they’re in his home, he struggles to regain a sense of control over the situation. “I hope everyone enjoys his breakfast.”

“This is very kind of you,” Thranduil says, his fingers already curled around a fork. He seems to have chosen to forget whatever it is Gandalf has told him and nibbles on the potato hash. Gandalf, meanwhile, has only reached for his coffee but is only resting it on his knee, the mug cupped in his hands. “I’m afraid, as far as neighbors go, I haven’t been a very good one.”

“Nonsense, you keep me on my feet,” Bard says good-naturedly.

“If by ‘keeping you on your feet’ you mean my rude arrival this morning, I’m afraid you’ll only serve to drive the point home.” The look he gives Bard is slightly embarrassed. “Apologies for that.”

“And apologies I can’t ‘silence my farm’,” Bard chuckles into his coffee, not able to resist the teasing remark.

“Ah, the roosters?” Gandalf inquires, although his tone is careful, testing the waters. Thranduil nods, but doesn’t turn to face him.

“Blasted animals,” Thranduil shakes his head. “I did notice though that the air-conditioning blocks out the noise most effectively. I must have that renovation done as soon as possible, at least for the bedroom.”

Bard plucks the list from the coffee table and hands it over. “Would take less than a week to get that done, one to two days at most.”

He can feel Gandalf watching them carefully, as though they were characters in a sitcom. He turns his gaze towards the old man, who doesn’t make a show of averting his eyes. He merely returns Bard’s look, patiently waits for him to say more.

“Anyway, I haven’t seen you around here the past few weeks, Professor Grey,” Bard says, rising up to the challenge. “Tilda’s been asking about you. ‘The smart, funny man who can do magic tricks’.”

Gandalf’s eyes twinkle with mirth. “Has she now? And how are Bain and Sigrid?”

“Fine…just getting back into the flow of things.” He focuses once more on Gandalf as he shovels a piece of toast with egg into his mouth. “How is your research going these days?”

“Very well,” the older man says, giving him a smile. “We were recently looking to better the spending on crops in the next year or so by doing a value chain analysis on the types of roads that traverse through the farmlands. Thranduil has generously volunteered to contribute to the research.”

Bard turns to Thranduil, who’s cutting up his egg into deliberately small pieces. He notices a large portion of the food has gone untouched.

“Agricultural specialist then?” Bard supplies. Hearing about other colleagues’ line of work has always fascinated him. Thranduil gives a non-committal shrug.

“Economist, actually, but I have a PhD in Agricultural Development.”

His answer surprises Bard. “Really?” he asks. Thranduil raises a dark eyebrow at him.

“Don’t sound so surprised. My father owned a vineyard. I was raised on the land quite a bit.”

He looks as though he’s about to say more but stops. He hunches over his food once more, cutting them up but not really eating.

“I came to give him a proper welcome,” Gandalf says. “Knew he was here because one of the gardeners next door said he noticed an irate white man with white-blonde hair conversing with you before disappearing inside your house. I think he was convinced he was going to hear of a murder taking place.”

“The only murder happening is of every damned rooster on the island,” Thranduil grumbles. Bard notes that he’s finished his toast at least, and has tucked into a bit more of the potatoes. He doesn’t know why he feels concerned, but he does.

“Someone will be dropping your car off. Did you want a driver with it, Thranduil, or can you manage?”

Bard doesn’t miss the weighted look the older man gives the younger, and it seems an eternity before Thranduil answers.

“A driver…would be best, I think.”

Gandalf nods. “Very well. Galion comes highly recommended. He used to work for the ambassador and is a good friend of mine. He’ll be included in your package.” He gestures towards Legolas’ sleeping form. “Did you also wish to inquire about schooling for Legolas?”

The statement seems to stun Thranduil and he looks at Gandalf as though he’s grown two heads. “School?” he repeats, as though the concept is foreign to him.

“Yes. School’s actually just started. Bard would know all about it. If you don’t want to enroll him just yet, the other option would be to put him in daycare while you’re doing field work, or hiring full-time help.”

“I’m not hiring anyone else to care for Legolas,” Thranduil says, his expression reflecting his aversion to the very idea.

“Please remember you will not be allowed to bring him for field work either,” Gandalf says, his tone firm but gentle, as though scolding a recalcitrant child. “School is the best option. He’s of age now to enroll for kindergarten, is he not?”

Bard decides to step in, seeing Thranduil bristling at the imposition. He understands the defensiveness; the other man is obviously going through something difficultand needs a bit more time to wrap his head around things. But he can also see the logic behind Gandalf’s words, albeit the older man should definitely learn how to lay out his points more sensitively.

“If I may…” he says, leaning forward to make himself more noticeable. It works, because both his guests turn to look at him. “Thranduil, I wouldn’t advise having full-time help either because you will never know whether or not to fully trust the people you hire and let into your house. I also think Legolas would greatly benefit having mostly you around to take care of him rather than some random grown-up. However, I do think putting him in school would be the best compromise as you wouldn’t have to worry about him during the hours that he’s there. It’s quite safe and we can also probably work together and take turns in picking the kids up.”

He pauses uncertainly at this, unsure how his new neighbor might take the idea of his child being cared for by someone he barely knows, but Thranduil keeps his silence, as though waiting for the rest of his offer. Bard clears his throat and continues.

“I can work with you for some sort of carpool schedule and keep an eye on the kids when you’re out. And maybe you can do the same when I’m out in the field, only you can leave my kids here and then go home with Legolas. Sigrid and Bain are big enough to manage the household when I’m not around and have been doing so the past few years.”

He doesn’t explain why, but he already feels Thranduil doesn’t need to hear an explanation. It’s only a proposed agreement anyway. He’s not going to force the other man to do what he obviously doesn’t want to do when it comes to matters about his child.

The other man sits in silence for a while, mulling his thoughts. When he finally speaks it’s with a tone of resignation.

“Let me…all right, let me discuss it with him,” Thranduil says. He runs a large hand down his face then up again, getting the hair out of his eyes and attempting to smooth it back. “He’s done with Pre-K but I also don’t want to push him into something he doesn’t feel he’s ready for.”

Bard admires how Thranduil speaks about Legolas not as a child who has to do his bidding as a parent, but as a living, breathing person who would have his own thoughts and preferences towards what happens in his life.

“Yes of course,” he leans back, showing with his body language that he’s not going to push. “Just tell me if you need anything and I’ll give you a hand.”

Thranduil seems comforted by this and continues picking at his breakfast. Gandalf gives Bard a meaningful glance before picking up his toast.

It doesn’t take long before Legolas stirs, going from asleep to fully awake in a matter of a minute. He recognizes Gandalf, and quickly launches at him with joy, nearly knocking the old man over in the process. He eyes Bard curiously, probably recognizing him from earlier in the week. Bard smiles at him and gets him milk in one of Tilda’s old Sesame Street cups. Thranduil feeds him small forkfuls of egg and potatoes while balancing him on his knee, occasionally kissing the crown of the boy’s head.

“You recognize Mr. Bowman, don’t you, Leaf? When we arrived last Monday,” Thranduil says. Legolas nods. He’s grabbed hold of the blanket his father is wearing and has draped it around himself as well so only his head is showing. It amazes Bard how much the boy is a spitting image of his father, if only with softer and less world-weary features.

“Mr. Bowman,” the boy says, then cocks his head to the right. “You caught me.”

Gandalf looks slightly confused at this and Thranduil’s eyes widen with alarm, but Bard is quick to answer. “Yes,” he replies. “I bet you were all tired and cranky then, huh?”

Legolas nods. “Yes. I’m not anymore.”

Bard smiles. “That’s good.”

“Ada still is though.”

Gandalf lets out a snort and Thranduil rolls his eyes. “Cheeky thing,” the father says. “Mr. Bowman is also the one who bought you the peanut butter and jelly you like so much.” He glances up at Bard. “That was a lifesaver. Thank you.”

“Glad to help,” Bard says, raising his mug.

Legolas wriggles in Thranduil’s hold, apparently having had enough of breakfast. He moves from his father’s lap and onto Gandalf’s, uttering “Grandpa, magic”. He giggles as Gandalf makes a quarter appear with a flick of his wrist and makes it disappear in the next second.

“Family friend,” Thranduil says, by means of explanation. Bard supposes he’s been staring. “My father and Professor Grey were old friends.”

“All right,” Bard says with a smile that tells the other man that he needn’t provide any more explanations. Thranduil looks at him gratefully.

They watch Legolas and Gandalf play a bit more, the old man obviously enjoying the high-pitched giggles he manages to elicit from the child. When Legolas nearly falls off the couch because of the roughhousing Thranduil is quick to catch him, pulling him back into his lap and holding him firm.

“Legolas,” he says, his tone more serious now. “Legolas, stop playing now and listen to me please.”

Realizing his father means business, the boy’s giggles quieten, although he maintains playfully swinging his legs. He places a thumb in his mouth and eyes Bard from where he’s sitting, as though pinpointing him for rescue in case Thranduil decides to punish him.

Thranduil lowers his head so his mouth is more level to Legolas’ ear. “Leaf, how do you feel about going to school?”

Legolas visibly perks up, his reaction much more optimistic than what his father’s had been. “School?”

“Yes.”

“May I?”

“If you want.”

Legolas nods, quickly removing his thumb from his mouth. “Yes please,” he says, almost shyly. “Dan and Ro and Arwen are in school. I want to be in school too.”  
  
Before Bard can wonder who Dan, Ro, and Arwen are, Thranduil has already replied. “Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen are not here, dear one. But you will be with Mr. Bowman’s children: Tilda, Sigrid, and Bain.”

Legolas glances back at Bard as if to assess him. “Are they big children?”

Bard gives him a reassuring smile. “Sigrid and Bain will be like your big brother and sister. Tilda is seven and is still small.”

The boy seems to find his answer acceptable, with him quickly turning back to his father. “Ada, do we start tomorrow then?”

As Thranduil starts to assure him that he definitely _won’t start tomorrow but soon enough_ , Bard catches as Gandalf gives him a small, grateful smile.

“I’ll call the headmaster today so he can make an exception to meet you and Legolas tomorrow,” the old man says as he playfully pulls on Legolas’ toes. “After that it’ll only be a matter of buying uniforms and supplies that I’m sure can be easily procured. The rest, Bard can run through you.”

Bard nods in agreement, already making a mental note to retrieve any of Tilda’s old, barely-used school supplies from kindergarten in case. Thranduil sighs, apparently outnumbered.

“All right, tomorrow,” he says, although he doesn’t look particularly joyous. Legolas cheers and kisses his father’s palm. Gandalf places a hand on Thranduil’s knee, patting it almost comfortingly.

“One step at a time, my boy. I’ll check back when Legolas has settled in school, and then we can discuss the research.”

The rest of their meal lapses into silence, only punctuated by random statements about Bard’s cooking, and Legolas’ gibberish singing, interrupted only when Thranduil insists on him eating one more bite of breakfast. Once Legolas is done with his milk, Thranduil makes to stand.

“I’m quite certain we’ve imposed on you long enough and have kept you from doing your own work. Apologies again. We’ll talk soon then, regarding school and things?” he says, his statement not really leaving any room for negotiation.

Bard nods and reaches for his cards, which he normally has in his pockets. He hands one to Thranduil. “My local number is on there, and my email, but just come and knock if you need me.”

Thranduil accepts, his long fingers nearly as white as the cardstock. “I have no local number as of yet, and internet doesn’t seem to be usable in the house. I will just come over if necessary.” He suddenly gives a small smirk. “Obviously at a more decent hour.”

“Did you want to borrow a shirt before venturing out? It’s a small neighborhood and the streets are rife with gossip,” Bard teases, unable to help himself. To his surprise, Thranduil nods.

“I’d be most grateful.” He gestures towards his current outfit. “I would think I’ve embarrassed myself enough already.”  
  
“I think it’s quite fetching,” Gandalf says as he engages Legolas in a clapping game. Thranduil frowns at him, which makes Bard laugh. He asks for them to wait and makes his way towards the back of the house where Sigrid has hung the laundry on the line. There’s a long-sleeved denim shirt he’s just been sent by his brother-in-law, but it’s proven too big for his frame. He had it washed and dried in the hopes it may shrink, but it doesn’t seem to have happened. No matter. He folds it up in the neatest way he can muster and gives it to Thranduil.

“Here,” he says. “No need to return it as it doesn’t fit me, but seems to be your size.”

Thranduil accepts with a short ‘thanks’ and lets the blanket drop abruptly for him to put the shirt on. When he does, Bard's eyes widen in shock: there are long, angry red-and-black scars that mar most of the side of Thranduil’s left torso, obviously remnants of a very recent, and very bad, accident. He's certain some are already surgical scars, and Bard inwardly winces upon realizing that some don't even look fully healed. Gandalf sees it too, visibly tensing at the sight, but says nothing, electing instead to continue playing Pat-a-Cake with Legolas. Taking a hint from the older man, Bard looks away, pulling out his mobile phone and checking his email instead.

Thranduil says nothing about the scars; in fact, he seems to have forgotten the possibility he might be exposing himself and continues to calmly pull the shirt on. He folds the shirtsleeves to the elbows once he has the buttons fastened and puts the now-folded fleece blanket to the side.

“There, now I look only slightly _less_ ridiculous,” he says, giving another small smirk, but this time aimed at himself. The denim shirt suits him, and despite it being paired with pajama bottoms and those ridiculous dragon feet slippers, the man makes it look as though the outfit is next year’s fashion trend.

Bard also notices the change in confidence now that Thranduil doesn’t have to constantly mind keeping the scars out of sight. He can’t help but wonder what had happened; it’s obviously something Gandalf knows about, but he doesn’t want to pry. He holds out a hand for Thranduil to shake; the other man’s palm is cool and smooth against his.

“See you soon then. Mind you don’t kill any roosters before that time.”

Thranduil gives a wry smile. “I’ll try not to. Thank you most kindly for having us and for breakfast.” He turns and retrieves his son, plucking him from Gandalf’s lap. “I suppose we shall also be meeting again soon, Gandalf.”

“Quite.” Gandalf says. He also makes to stand. “I’m afraid I must also be off as well.” He turns to Bard, gives a small bow of his head. “Always lovely to see you, Master Bowman.”

“And you as well.”

He accompanies his guests to the door, giving them a final wave as they go their separate ways: Gandalf to the silver sedan waiting for him on the street, and Thranduil towards to the house adjacent, Legolas waving cheerily over his father’s shoulder. When they’re gone, Bard lets out a sigh. The house seems bigger now, emptier, but the air is thick with promise. He whistles as he clears the used cutlery to fill the void where Thranduil’s deep voice and Legolas’ merry humming had been only minutes before. Oddly, he can feel his heart thrumming fast against his ribcage.

 _One step at a time, my boy_ , he finds himself repeating Gandalf’s words. _One step at a time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok this is the longest one so far. This isn't how I really planned it but Thran wanted to be sad and alone for a while longer, so the three previous chapters plus this one pretty much sums up his and Legolas' Current Situation Prior to Bowman Intervention. 
> 
> Hopefully the two dorks can finally spend more time together after that. ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Thranduil's turn for pick-up duty.

It takes a surprisingly short time to enroll Legolas into the school. The current headmaster of the primary division, Radagast Brown, is an old friend of Gandalf’s and informs Thranduil breezily about the admissions process, which really only involves Legolas being put in a classroom environment for a few hours to stack blocks, name letters and numbers, and see how well he gets on with the other children. Given the size of the island and the number of children whose parents can afford the school’s rates, Legolas’ class is only comprised of 7 children, and have no qualms about him joining already three weeks into the new school year. Legolas also seems to have no problem fitting in; Thranduil knows because his son is excited to go to school _every day,_ despite the heinous waking-up time and the horrendous uniform.  
  
Thranduil sighs as he stands in what Bard calls ‘The Dugout’, where a handful of other parents are also waiting. It’s his first time to actually do the wait, as Bard had done the fetching the three days previous while he had been busy making sure their house got fitted with air-conditioning. Bard had taken Legolas straight home before picking up his own kids, but now all the kids are going home at the same time because it’s a holiday tomorrow, and Thranduil has been asked if it was all right to pick all of them up while Bard finished up some field work.  
  
“Sigrid is fifteen, Bain is twelve, and Tilda is seven,” Bard told him over the phone, as if that would help him identify his brood in a crowd. “You’ve seen Tilda. They ought to be exiting together.”  
  
“Yes, but they don’t _know_ me,” Thranduil had said, growing slightly anxious. He doesn’t exactly know how to deal with teenagers in particular; Elladan and Elrohir are an exception, with him being godfather and all, and practically immune to their mischief.  
  
Bard had laughed him off. “I’ve told them you’ll be picking them up. You’ll be fine. You can just drop them off at the house.”  
  
Thranduil had been about to protest at this as well, not particularly keen on leaving any of the children under his watch alone, even in their own home, but Bard had quickly cut him off, saying they had to go check on the reefs now and that he’ll call later. Now Thranduil is fidgeting, highly aware of the number of eyes on him as he stands in the baking heat of The Dugout, his arms folded tight over his chest and his eyes resolutely on the passageway where the children will be exiting from.  
  
San Martin University isn’t a terrible place. It’s Catholic, but promotes holistic learning. Private, but offers a wide range of scholarships, helpful no doubt to the huge population of locals who seem content to live out the rest of their lives on the island while contributing to the quietly growing economy. Its research arm is headed by Gandalf who, despite his eccentricities and unfortunate habit of meddling with other people’s lives, has earned himself quite a decent reputation, not only amongst the expat and development community but with the locals as well.  
  
Among the many parents milling about, there is a gaggle of mothers, in their sundresses, straw hats, and espadrilles, sitting close to the giant steel industrial fan the school has provided to keep things cool in the area. Thranduil greeted them once when he arrived but has avoided looking at them since. They’re not locals, not with their healthy tans, sun-bleached hair, and painted nails. They’re not a group Lindariel would have gravitated towards were she with him, but she would have definitely attempted small talk, if only to be nice.  
  
One of the mothers looks as if she’s going to attempt to approach him, when his phone – thank the Valar – suddenly rings. It’s his international number, which can really only mean it’s one of three persons. He receives the call without hesitation, but is quick to mentally steel himself for what he’s sure will not be an easy conversation.  
  
“THRANDUIL!” Elrond shouts his name loudly enough he’s sure everyone on the island has heard. “Oh, thank the _Valar_.”  
  
Thranduil releases the breath he’s been holding.  
  
“Hello, Elrond.”  
  
“I’ve been trying to bloody _reach_ you for two bloody fucking weeks!”  
  
Elrond’s voice is strained, but relieved. Thranduil has known the older man long enough to know that his anger won’t last, but feels guilty all the same. Elrond rarely swears, and when he does it’s usually something involving the twins’ idiocies.  
  
“Sorry. We’ve been a bit…occupied.”  
  
He’s known Elrond’s been ringing, of course, but he hasn’t been in the best emotional or mental state to deal with anything involving his family outside of Legolas. His stomach is in knots now just having Elrond on the other end, and it takes him a sheer amount of self-control to stay on the line. He figures he can’t run from his remaining family forever, and better to face Elrond now than his aunt and uncle.  
  
“I should bloody well hope so!” his friend exclaims, but there’s no more genuine heat in his tone. “What time is it there?”  
  
Thranduil squints at his watch. “Two-seventeen in the afternoon.”  
  
There’s a tell-tale clacking of fingers dancing over a computer keyboard. “It’s two-seventeen in the bloody morning here and I just decided to take a chance to see if you would finally pick up. I’ve also checked on the temperature there and see that it’s like being in a bloody oven.”  
  
“You can’t imagine.”  
  
“Good that it is,” Elrond rants, “and I hope you get a horrendous sunburn if only to get back at you ignoring all my calls. You said you’d bloody email at least.”  
  
At this, Thranduil winces a bit, feeling very much like an errant child as Elrond is wont to do. The sound of his friend’s voice stirs awake a yearning in him for home, for slate-grey skies and thick forests that could swallow you whole, but at the same time the thought brings about a strong repulsion, a door he wants to keep closed. The memories still make his insides ache and his nerves burn.  
  
“Sorry,” he says, because there really is nothing else he can say.  
  
Elrond sighs on the other line, obviously not used to him being so submissive. “You should just be thankful Gandalf was kind enough to send across an email the previous week to Galadriel and Celeborn, saying he had met you and Legolas and that you were having breakfast at a neighbor’s. If he hadn’t you might have had the rather pleasant surprise of having both of them at your doorstep.”  
  
Thranduil makes a face. He doesn’t doubt that his aunt and uncle have been having long discussions with Gandalf; they’ve long had the habit of checking on him behind his back. Celeborn is his father’s only sibling, younger by a decade, and since Oropher’s death has made it his personal mission to be unnecessarily protective towards his only nephew.  
  
“Thank the Valar they haven’t.”  
  
“No thanks to you,” Elrond snaps, but then he sighs. “You should call them soon. If you don’t, I won’t be able to stop them from actually getting on the next flight out to there. You know how they worry….”  
  
Something unsaid hangs in the air, and a sour taste rushes into Thranduil’s mouth. The chasm in his chest cracks open and makes his ribs ache. Absentmindedly, his right arm curls around his front, his fingers lightly touching his more vulnerable side.  
  
“I will,” he says, when the silence has gone on for far too long. “I will, don’t worry about it.”  
  
“How is it though?” Elrond asks, his voice quieter now, calmer. He can never stay angry for too long. “And don’t you lie. You know I can tell if you are.”  
  
Thranduil spares a glance at the passageway again, if only to wish for the children to appear soon before Elrond can drag him deeper into the direction he knows this conversation is heading into; unfortunately, it’s still empty, save for a member of the school staff who’s keeping a checklist of all the parents present. She taps her watch and raises her hand to wave in the universal gesture for _Not yet_ when she catches him looking. She also gestures to the school bell positioned on one of the concrete posts beside her. Thranduil nods and turns away to have the rest of the conversation in private. His stomach is churning.  
  
“It’s fine.”  
  
His friend scoffs on the other line. “Liar,” he says, but doesn’t push. “All right, if you want to play that way. Have you been taking your meds?”  
  
Thranduil hesitates before answering. If he’s going to be honest with himself, he still can’t put any weight on his side, and there are hours in the day when his wound throbs so badly he has to stop and wait until it passes. He’s also left his antibiotics untouched since Greenwood, keeping them in one of the dresser drawers back at the house.  
  
His wife died instead of him that day, having flung herself in front of him just as their car made impact with the truck carrying steel scaffolding in front of them. Compared to Lindariel’s wounds, Thranduil’s is just a graze. The least he can do is endure the pain.  
  
“Yes,” he tells Elrond.  
  
There’s a pause, and Thranduil knows Elrond doesn’t believe him one bit. They can read each other like mirror images, having been friends for far longer than they’ve been related, but where Thranduil is harsh and unforgiving, Elrond is soft and pliant, the exact antithesis. Thranduil has often wondered if Elrond marrying into their family was done on purpose, if only to annoy him to the grave. But even a blind man could tell that his beloved and only cousin, Celebrian, had truly loved Elrond.  
  
“ _Thranduil_ ,” his friend says with a tone of warning.  
  
Thranduil stands his ground. He grits his teeth as he spits out the lie: “I _am,_ Elrond. You can bloody well check the bottle if you want to.”  
  
There’s another pause and Thranduil knows it’s because Elrond has realized they’re at a deadlock. He isn’t going to admit anything now, especially not when his friend can’t just easily come over to physically check on him the same way he’d done when they were living in Greenwood. Having a friend-turned-relative is bad enough; having a friend-turned-relative-turned-personal physician is just taking it a step too far.  
  
“If you want, I’ll send you a picture of the bottle later,” Thranduil says, his tone turning unpleasant.  
  
“Oh, don’t be a child,” Elrond sounds equally testy. “This is your _life,_ Greenleaf…”  
  
“Yes, well, I’m _trying to live it,_ Elrond. I don’t need you breathing down my neck while I do. That’s why I went to this bloody island in the first place.”  
  
Despite his discomfort, Thranduil feels his temper crackle in his veins. The heat and the minor inconveniences he’s had to endure have made him more irritable than usual, although he’s been attempting to rein in his temper. He doesn’t feel he deserves this flak on top of everything else.  
  
He’s just about to warn Elrond that he’ll hang up if the conversation would go further south but his friend concedes defeat, breathing a heavy sigh down the other end of the line.  
  
“Point taken. Let’s not fight. It’s bloody two in the morning here.” Elrond doesn’t sound happy but makes up for it in his next statement: “Anyway, you’d better be telling the bloody truth or I’ll give you a thorough arse-kicking for it the next time we meet, and I won’t care if even Legolas sees.”  
  
At this, Thranduil cracks a smile. “I’ll hold you to it.”  
  
“Cocky bastard,” Elrod grumbles. “You do owe me updates on my godson. Is he adjusting better than you are?”  
  
Thranduil ignores the indirect jab, reasoning that he probably deserved it anyway. Their children are something he and Elrond can happily discuss the whole day about, their interest in each other’s offspring just so natural that the fact that they’re both godparents to each other’s sons is just a bonus. He’s in fact quite pleased that, because of school, Legolas has been most recently very pleasant, and acting very much like his former self, before Lindariel passed.  
  
“Very well, actually.”  
  
“I did some research. You enrolled him at the university?”  
  
“The Infants division, yes. Gandalf put in a kind word.”  
  
“Is it International? That school is quite well-known.”  
  
“For the price I’m paying, it’d better be.” Thranduil snorts. “Honestly, this place is half-expat, but they do try to preserve the local culture as much as they can. Little bugger loves it so far. Doesn’t speak a lick of the language yet, but I have a feeling he will be in a couple more weeks...”  
  
The conversation is lighter after that. Thranduil talks to him about their bungalow with the mini-jungle in the garden; how the sun shines more than 12 hours a day, 7 days a week and it’s like living under a heat lamp; how much laundry he and Legolas accumulate every day because they keep changing clothes; how he doesn’t recognize half of the produce and meat products they sell at the grocer’s and he is almost always too afraid or too shy about his ignorance to ask. Elrond laughs and laughs.  
  
“I didn’t tell you about our hardships just for you to find them amusing,” Thranduil grumbles, although the sound of Elrond’s mirth has lifted his spirits immensely.  
  
“I would hardly call them _hardships._ You’re just spoiled,” his friend says. “Honestly, Thranduil, you work in _development._ Get off your First World pedestal.”  
  
“Right, thank you, Peredhel.”  
  
“Actually, it sounds like you’re having a rather grand time.”  
  
“Does it, really?” Thranduil asks in disbelief. “I hardly think complaining is evidence of ‘having a rather grand time’.”  
  
Elrond tuts on the other line. “I know you better than you know yourself. You like learning how things work, taking things apart and putting them back together again. Besides, you have made friends, right? This neighbor you mentioned. The one who gave you the list of people you can call for your errands and the one Gandalf said fed you breakfast.”  
  
His ears burn at this because Thranduil hadn’t really noticed his mentioning Bard. Apparently he had.  
  
“He’s from Esgaroth and he works for the Internations Development Bank. I’m picking his kids and Legolas up from school today.”  
  
“Lot in common then,” Elrond says, and he sounds thoughtful.  
  
He’s about to start saying something else but the bell suddenly rings, a shrill jangling sound that makes Thranduil’s skin crawl. Chaos ensues soon after, with children being let out of their classrooms all at the same time then them stampeding towards their waiting parents like a herd of wild beasts. Thranduil has to say goodbye to Elrond then, panicked that Legolas might get crushed in the fray while he’s not looking, and his friend relents after making him promise to speak soon but on _his_ phone bill next time. He’s just hung up when a small warm weight slams into the back of his knees and almost sends him sprawling. Thranduil looks down and sees Legolas hugging his leg.  
  
“Ada!” Legolas grins. “You came!”  
  
Thranduil untangles his son from his limb and lifts him up, giving him a kiss on the cheek. Legolas carries with him the scent of the schoolroom: glue, cardboard paper, and scratch-and-sniff stickers. His stomach churns again at the realization that his son is no longer a baby.  
  
“Of course I came.”  
  
“Is Bard busy?”  
  
Thranduil almost feels a stab of jealousy at the question. Almost. “He’s working today so I’m picking all four of you up.” He scans the throng of overexcited children gathering at The Dugout for a group that might resemble Bard’s brood. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to look for long; Tilda recognizes him right away and runs towards him, equally eager as Legolas if not more so. Behind her trail two older children: the teenaged girl, holding a handful of books to her chest, is wary but polite, while the boy, with his fingers curled around his backpack’s straps, is curious but reserved.  
  
“Mister Thranduil!” Tilda says excitedly, and Thranduil has to wonder if he’s done anything special to make the child overly excited for his presence. “Hello!”  
  
“Hello, Miss Tilda, it’s nice to meet you again,” Thranduil says. Legolas is squirming in his hold, wordlessly asking to be let down. Thranduil lowers him to the floor where he immediately latches onto his father’s leg, eyeing the other children with the same amount of curiosity. “This is my son, Legolas.”  
  
His son takes a step forward at the sound of his name but doesn’t let go of his leg.  
  
Tilda smiles brightly. Her barrettes are starting to slide off her hair and there’s a smudge of dirt on her nose. “Hello, Legolas!” She holds out her hand for him to take and when he does, swings it around in a big circle. When Legolas laughs and Tilda follows suit, Thranduil’s chest grows warm.  
  
“I’m Sigrid,” the older girl comes forward as the two youngest children start declaring themselves new best friends. Her expressions are guarded and her movements measured, but her eyes are quick and intelligent. Her body is wound in such a way as though any second, should the need arise, she’s ready to bolt and take her siblings with her. “Da messaged me earlier and told me you were picking us up?”  
  
“Thranduil Greenleaf,” Thranduil smiles and offers a hand to shake. Sigrid’s grip is firm. Thranduil is impressed; Bard has taught his eldest well. “We live in the house across the street. I’ve met your dad a few times.”  
  
“He did say…” Sigrid is still watchful, but has loosened a bit. Perhaps she’s matching Thranduil’s story to her father’s. “I’ll just give him a quick message then to tell him you’ve come?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“Can I include a picture of you as well?”  
  
“Er…sure.”  
  
As Sigrid takes a quick photo of him with her phone before texting a message to Bard, Bain approaches. The boy resembles Bard very much, right down to the mischief glinting in his eyes.  
  
“Were you the one complaining about the roosters?” Bain asks, looking amused. He also is careful not to get too close, but he eyes Thranduil inquisitively. “Da said you didn’t much like them.”  
  
“They were a bit noisy for my tastes,” Thranduil tells him, nervous now of what else Bard has told them. “Your father mentioned it to you?”  
  
Bain shrugs. “He just said the new neighbor, Mr. Greenleaf, doesn’t like the roosters because they woke you up.”  
  
“I like them,” Legolas pipes up. “They have pretty colors.”  
  
Thranduil almost grimaces at his son’s declaration. “Well they’re not a bother to me now; the house finally has air-conditioning in the bedroom.”  
  
Bain nods. “There’s an awful lot of roosters here and they crow nearly all at the same time in the morning. They use them for cockfights. I’ve not seen one in real life yet but I’ve read about them on the internet. They seem quite horrible and I wish they wouldn’t do that.”  
  
As though realizing he’s said far more than he should have, the boy suddenly clamps his lips together, giving him a sheepish smile. Thranduil is about to persuade him to talk some more but Tilda comes to his rescue.  
  
“Bain loves animals. We couldn’t get one back home because we lived in the city, but Da has promised that if we all get into the Honor Roll this semester, we can get a pet,” Tilda explains. “I want a dog, and Sig wants a cat, but Bain is happy to get any type of animal.”  
  
“Ada, I want a pet too!” Legolas says, blue eyes now wide. “Please, may I?”  
  
“We’ll talk about it a bit more,” Thranduil promises, not really wanting to get into a discussion now. The Dugout has gotten quite heated in the short amount of time that the children have been let out, and he already feels slightly faint. Blasted weather. He cocks his head towards the exit. “Shall we?”  
  
“Hang on, Da hasn’t—oh, there we are.” Sigrid looks at her phone with an expression of relief. “Okay, he said you’re fine.”  
  
“I already _told_ you it was Mister Thranduil,” Tilda looks mildly insulted. Bain shrugs.  
  
“Is it okay if we stop for snacks on the way home, Mr. Greenleaf? I’m starving and Da hasn’t done the shopping yet.”  
  
Sigrid looks aghast at her brother. “Bain!” She reaches over and pinches his shoulder, hissing, “That’s _rude!_ ” in his ear.  
  
Thranduil had not considered stopping for snacks but suddenly remembers now the never-ending hunger that comes with the rest of young boys’ growing pains. He used to eat his own father out of house and home, but considering Bard’s job and the late hours he has to pull, plus the early-morning wake-up calls he has to endure to get all three children ready for school, Thranduil can only feel for the other man.  
  
“I suppose we could,” he tells them, and the manner in which the children’s’ faces light up is quite evident. “But you have to tell me where. I’m still quite new to the area.”  
  
“Oooh, Coco Jacks!”  
  
“Tilda!” Sigrid looks dismayed at her siblings’ manners.  
  
“Sigrid, don’t worry, it’s quite all right,” Thranduil smiles gently at the teenager, hoping to put her at ease. He feels like he’s melting in the heat, but doesn’t move from his spot, wanting to make Sigrid feel comfortable first. Despite having no siblings, he can understand being the eldest child in the group; the task of babysitting Celebrian, as well as their second cousins, Haldir, Rumil, and Orophin as they were growing up being always something he had been saddled with. “Your Da helped Legolas and I settle by shopping groceries for us during our first few days. This is the least I can do to pay him back.”  
  
“He did, Sig!” Tilda says. “Da and I bought them peanut butter and things.”  
  
He doesn’t affirm Tilda’s declaration, knowing without a doubt that he would need the eldest child’s approval first before he’ll be allowed to extend the courtesy, so he waits as Sigrid mulls over his offer. She’s a quick one, the girl, and he knows she’s already sized him up. Sigrid’s wide gray-green eyes meet his and, after a minute’s hesitation, nods ever so slightly.  
  
“We can go…” she makes sure to give her brother a disapproving glance but quickly turns her attention back to Thranduil, “but you don’t have to treat us, Mr. Greenleaf. Da gives us enough money to buy food and other things for school.”  
  
Sigrid is obviously no longer one who can be treated like a child and he respects her for it. At her statement, Thranduil nods.  
  
“Very well, as you wish Ms Bowman.” He notices that her cheeks color slightly at how he calls her, while Bain seems to find the label hilarious. “The car is this way then. If you would be so kind to just direct the driver to the destination, we should be on our way then have you back home in no time.”  
  
Tilda is only too happy at the agreement, and immediately takes Legolas’ hand to run towards the Dugout’s exit. Bain thankfully prevents their escape by grabbing a hold of each of the younger children’s’ backpacks, and urging them to wait for everyone else. Sigrid joins in the fray by picking up after them, her hands suddenly full with lunchboxes and fallen books. She gives Thranduil a determined glance once she’s gotten her bearings.  
  
“Ready when you are, Mr. Greenleaf.” This time she smiles at him, and Thranduil feels as though she's just presented him with an award. He's never been entirely popular with children, save for his own child and Elrond's. The fact that Bard's brood are so quick to accept him with open arms makes him surprisingly giddy, if not a little flattered. He's not sure at this point why it seems to matter so much, but it does and he's grateful.   
  
_Got your bunch,_ he sends Bard a quick text before they reach the car. All of Bard's children have politely waited for him before clambering in, despite Legolas' declarations that it's all right. It isn't until he ushers them inside himself that they squeeze in at the back, Bain holding Tilda firmly in his lap and Sigrid holding her own backpack to her chest. The other paraphernalia they've stashed into the boot, and Thranduil himself sits with Galion up front.  _They're not allergic to anything, are they?_  
  
He drums his fingers as he waits for Bard to text back, and fortunately, it doesn't take long. Galion has just been directed by the children to what seems to be a small beachfront stand not far from the school when Thranduil's phone buzzes in reply.  
  
_Nope except 2 Daddy saying No.  
  
_ Thranduil is about to reply when another message enters his inbox. Then another. Then another. Then another.   
  
_If ur taking them 2 C Jacks, good luck.  
  
__Bain wl eat u out of house & home, & so wil Sig. Tild tho will fight u if u force her 2 eat.  
  
Legolas may like banana frittrs if not allergic. If allergic they can make butter & sugar toast inhouse.  
  
Nearly dropped my phone in the h2O. Talk l8r.  
  
_Thranduil finds it hard _not_ to roll his eyes, unable to comprehend the amount of messages that have just come through. Equally appalling is Bard's penchant for shorthand-speak when texting, something he hadn't expected. Clearly the man is a relic from the early 2000s.   
  
_Thanks for the warning. Will bring them back to your house_   _after snacks,_ Thranduil replies. _Gotta go, kids have gone to store ahead of me. See you soon.  
  
_ His cheeks flush suddenly, and he's unsure if it's just the heat. The last part of the message had come unbidden, and he had pressed SEND too quickly. Although it seems a fitting ending to the message, a part of him wishes he could take it back. He can think of a million ways the message could be misconstrued, and for all the wrong reasons.   
  
His phone buzzes again.  _Tnx. ;) See u n kids v soon.  
  
_ This time, Thranduil does flush red. He deletes the message as soon as he reads it, not wanting the risk of anyone else seeing it. He tries to keep his rising anxiety at bay, although he's not sure what's causing it. Ignoring the churning in his stomach, he opens the car door to make his way towards where the children are. Galion had dutifully escorted them and they have already claimed seats underneath the shade of a large, faded beach umbrella. The food stand they've chosen is really nothing more than a few sheets of plywood hammered together and which somehow has garnered the use of electricity, but the spot is pleasant enough. From where they are now, Thranduil can now clearly see the sea, separated from them by a seawall along the beach's perimeter. The heat, although still quite oppressive, is tempered by the cool breezes that blow into the shoreline.  
  
He starts to feel a bit better after having taken the walk from the car. The children are already eating when he joins in, with Legolas surprisingly already clutching a half-eaten fritter in hand.   
  
"That's his second one," Galion reports to him in a low voice, although his tone is amiable. Thranduil smiles and nods.   
  
"Are you all right, Mr. Greenleaf?" Sigrid's voice cuts in. The teenager is looking at him with worried eyes from across the stained wood table.  
  
"Hm? Of course," Thranduil gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "Why wouldn't I be?"  
  
The other children have now looked up, their cheeks in various states of fullness.   
  
"You look odd..." Bain comments. "Like you've been given a surprise but you're not sure you like it."  
  
"Please sit down, Mr. Greenleaf," Sigrid says, and makes her way towards him, a full glass of fruit shake in hand, the sides slick with condensation. "This might make you feel better. It's ripe mango and coconut milk. It'll help you cool down." She's suddenly shy when he reaches out to take it. "I didn't know what you'd like but I can order something else if you didn't fancy this..."  
  
"No, no, this is quite all right," Thranduil reassures her, touched by the young girl's thoughtfulness. "Thank you."  
  
Sigrid gives him a sideways grin that is an exact replica of her father's, and Thranduil is surprised to feel his heart stutter. The moment soon passes and Legolas is now on his knees on the bench, kissing his temple with sugar-stained lips and quickly demanding now to be let on his lap. The other children resume lighthearted banter, discussing homework, weekend plans, and the division of chores. Thranduil deliberately blocks them out, telling himself he really doesn't want to listen in on any of Bard's children's business, or anything to do with Bard at all, but finds it hard to do when they unwittingly drag him into their conversation, asking him about Esgaroth and Greenwood. Thankfully, they don't ask further when Thranduil tells them he's in San Martin on assignment, the reality of being in the international development circle probably already ingrained into them since childhood.  
  
For a moment he imagines Legolas as Tilda's age, then Bain's, then Sigrid's, happily following him as he gets assigned from one country to the next, but then he remembers Lindariel, and the fact that this was not the reality he had expected to face not even six months past. This was not the life he had initially planned for. The very reminder of it makes him sick to his stomach.  
  
"Da likes it here," he hears Tilda saying. "He likes it very much but he can get a bit lonely. You know because sometimes he's a big moody bear."  
  
"He likes the PTA meetings," Bain offers, quick to defend his father. "But that's all the socialisation he does, I think."  
  
Sigrid laughs. "He only likes the PTA meetings because he likes finding out what we're doing in school and checking our stories against theirs. And he likes knowing about recipes from the mums that come."  
  
"I don't have a mum," Legolas quips from his spot in Thranduil's lap. He says it so easily that Thranduil doesn't even comprehend it at first. Only when he repeats it does the gravity of his words sink in. "I don't have one anymore. Nana's gone."  
  
Thranduil feels as though a stake has just been driven into his heart. It's different to hear difficult truths coming from himself or other adults, but to hear it coming from his child so _casually_ is another thing altogether. He's not sure if he's still breathing when Tilda reaches over his arm and suddenly hugs Legolas. She doesn't say anything, but holds Legolas for a while, causing his son to move off his lap and back onto the bench.  
  
"I'm sorry, Mr. Greenleaf," Sigrid says quietly, and her eyes look hollow. Bain stares resolutely at his plate, but eventually lifts his head to meet his eyes.   
  
"Us too. Five years."   
  
They don't say anything more and Tilda still holds Legolas. They resume eating shortly after, the two youngest children now feeding each other pieces of their own fritters, their hands clasped tightly together as though they're two halves of one whole. Although Thranduil's chest aches and his eyes burn, his heart feels lighter, something like understanding having passed between him and Bard's children. He marvels at them and their quiet strength. He also can't ignore the fact that any resilience the children must have, their father would have been the source. There is nothing he would want to do more than teach Legolas to stay gentle when the world has proven to be nothing but harsh, much like what Bard seems to have taught his own brood.  
  
Thranduil takes a deep breath and holds before releasing it slowly, a trick Elrond taught him during his recovery at hospital. The pain is still there and his side is flaring, but he's still standing and the world keeps turning. He silently struggles to regain his center, which now feels oddly tilted off its axis, but now not altogether wrong.  
  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG this story is taking on a life of its own. I'm sorry for this Mess. Maybe there will be a semblance of Plot eventually? IDEK.
> 
> SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. :(


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard has Quite A Day.

Although Bard loves his job, there are particular times in the year when he hates doing it the most.  
  
In particular, he hates the mid-year slog from June to August, when the fiscal year ends, the budget resets, and essentially all the hounds of hell break loose to wreak havoc on what’s always presupposed to be a smooth transition into the new year. For days on end during those months his hours are consumed by field visits, peer reviews, and endless virtual meetings where he has to sit late nights in his living room with a pressed button-down shirt over his boxers, pretending to be mildly interested in a discussion over allocations, objectives, and the new year’s programmatic goals taking place halfway across the world. He wakes up on the sofa more often than not on those days, his iPad to his chest and his glasses nestled above his head, but always right on time to jumpstart their breakfast routine. No matter how busy he gets, Bard is not one to let his parental duties slide.  
  
“Rough night, Da?” Sigrid tells him as she appears from her room at 5 AM, already showered and dressed, but still without her shoes on. Her slippers make soft shuffling noises against the swept hardwood floor.  
  
Bard gives a soft sigh in response. He’d woken up drooling on the kitchen counter not even twenty minutes past. There’s a crick in his neck and his shoulders are aching, but he had risen all the same, rubbing his eyes and rolling up his wrinkled sleeves, ready to face another day.  
  
“You could say that,” he tells her. If he were to be honest, he feels like absolute shit and wants nothing more than to take a hot shower and hibernate the next three days. Instead, he gives his eldest a smile. “Ok, my dear one, my darling firstborn. I’m giving you first right of refusal: Overnight oats or a smoothie bowl? That will determine breakfast for the day.”  
  
Sigrid looks thoughtful. “Smoothie bowl? Does that mean they finally restocked frozen berries at the grocery store?”  
  
“Only strawberries, but good enough.” Bard places a bowl in front of her that he’s topped with a crushed granola bar, as well as a glass of orange juice and a banana. Midway he also steals a kiss on her forehead, which Sigrid thankfully still indulges him with. “Okay, choice made. I already whipped up enough of the stuff to last us til tomorrow, including snacks.”  
  
“Thanks, Da.”  
  
He settles himself at the counter with her, armed with a cup of coffee he’s made to stir himself awake, and his own smoothie bowl. There’s a comfortable silence that falls between them as they attend to their breakfast in near-identical ministrations: banana sliced into uneven rounds with the spoon and added into the smoothie, before stirring the mixture twice and taking the first big bite.  
  
“Training today?” Bard asks between a mouthful of blended frozen fruit. “Homework?”  
  
“No, not today. Coach Anna is out.” The teenager shakes her head, licking her spoon clean. “And not much on the homework front, Da. I just had to write an essay about the Shakespeare chapter we read for English class. We have to finish the book by the end of the semester but we’re doing it in chunks for now.”  
  
“Won’t that slow it down though?” Bard’s own memories of Shakespeare are of hideously long lines with barely-understandable English. It was never one of his better subjects – Math definitely came easier, and thankfully, his children seem to also have inherited a knack with numbers – but his wife had gobbled up literature left and right and, knowing Sigrid, she would be outright bored with waiting for an entire class to catch up reading a chapter.  
  
“It does, but I’ve read ahead.”  
  
He snorts amusedly at this because _of course you have, my love._ Both her and Tilda have a mean competitive streak. He’s still trying to figure out how to harness it to get them to do more chores around the house while not simultaneously rendering severe damage to his wallet, or to their home.  
  
“Which one is it?”  
  
"Romeo and Juliet.”  
  
At this, Bard resists rolling his eyes. He comes to the conclusion 9th grade literature is the same the world over, and this is already with Sigrid in the Honors class.  
  
“May I see it then? Where’s this masterpiece essay?”  
  
“It’s not finished yet,” Sigrid makes a face at him. “But I did run my ideas by Mr. Greenleaf when he picked us up yesterday. He helped me make sense out of some of my ideas. I just have to finish writing it down.”  
  
Bard has to smile at the mention of Thranduil’s name. Having their new neighbor to share in the pick-up duty of the children from school has definitely been a massive help, especially with the influx of year-end work, although it did also take some getting used to.  
  
The first time the other man got a clear idea of what his working hours would be he had asked if he could come to Bard’s house with Legolas in order for them to align their schedules. It wasn’t rocket science in particular, but they did have to plan out at least four months ahead, with Thranduil also thinking up various contingency plans in case neither of them would be able to make it. The end result was both of them now having identical copies of a color-coded Excel spreadsheet stuck to their respective fridges, as well as a digital version on their phones, with _alarms_.  
  
“This is completely unnecessary,” Bard had found himself almost when Thranduil had synced the schedules. His e-calendar now looked like a Mondrian painting gone wrong.  
  
“I can assure you it _is,_ especially in our line of work. I don’t want either of us to suddenly be dragged into field work and forgetting we have to pick up the children.” Thranduil had looked almost annoyed, but it may have been due to the fact that it had already been past 1 AM and they had just spent three hours fixing the damned schedule. They had even already put Legolas to bed with Tilda, both children only too glad for the impromptu sleepover.  
  
“Oh for heaven’s sake. You have Galion, and I have Sigrid and Bain who are like pint-sized adults. At worst, we could also have any of the school mums pick them up and look after them while one of us rushes back…”  
  
Thranduil’s face had been like thunder, as if Bard had just suggested leaving their children to the wolves. “Not funny. None of those women even _know_ my child.”  
  
Bard had nearly laughed. “ _You_ don’t even _know_ those women.”  
  
“Not the point. They’re strangers.”  
  
“ _I’m_ a stranger,” Bard had pointed out. “But you trust me.”  
  
Thranduil had merely shrugged but said nothing else, and Bard had decided to leave it at that. The system they’ve developed works for now, at least. It’s been such a hectic few weeks however that they’ve barely exchanged conversation since then, only hushed _thank yous_ and _good nights_ whenever they go to each other’s houses to pick their children up at the end of the day (since Thranduil absolutely refused to leave Bard’s children alone in the house despite his insistence that it’s all right, and Bard also feels it his parental duty to keep an eye on Legolas where he can be nearer to home rather than have him wait in Thranduil’s office).  
  
“…Da, are you listening?”  
  
Bard blinks. Sigrid stares at him with an expression that looks entirely like her mother’s: half-peeved and half-curious.  
  
“Sorry, darlin’, must have spaced out a bit there. What were you saying?”  
  
“I was just saying that Mr. Greenleaf helps us with homework a lot too but he doesn’t tell us the answers to things directly. He kind of answers our questions with more questions.”  
  
A soft laugh escapes his lips. That does sound like something Thranduil would do. “That’s a good thing, Sig. At least you learn to look for the answers rather than him telling you guys the answers directly.”  
  
His eldest shrugs, spooning the last of her breakfast into her mouth. “I don’t mind. I like doing it that way. It’s less boring.”  
  
“Good. You’ll be doing more of it in college.” The caffeine has entered his system and he’s nearly fully awake now. He collects their dirty dishes to place into the sink and glances at the fridge door on his way. The schedule is held in place by a thick magnet in the shape of a doughnut, and Bard scans it quickly for any onerous responsibilities he might have to undertake for the day. Blue means him and green is Thranduil and it looks as if Thranduil has pick-up duty still because Bard has to finish transmitting a report by the afternoon. The last, thankfully, to determine funding for one of the biodiversity programs, but still quite a chore to do.  
  
Confirming his schedule seems to be last thing that allows his gears to finally be set in motion and he gets to work finishing up the morning routine. As Sigrid finishes up her essay, he checks that Bain’s soccer gear is complete, then prepares a plate of dinosaur-shaped pancakes for Tilda, who often makes it a point to dislike whatever it is everyone else is eating. By the time all the children are awake, showered, dressed, fed, and ready for school, Bard feels as though it’s should already be end-of-day despite it being only 6:30.  
  
“Love you, Da. Don’t work too hard,” Sigrid says, blowing him a kiss as she saunters out towards the bus, finished essay in hand. Bain gives him a fist bump as he passes, blearily wiping his eyes. Tilda, in a rare good mood so early in the morning, gives his shoulder a gentle bite as he lifts her to kiss her cheek.  
  
“Da, can we please still go to Coral Island? My class wasn’t able to reach the grade we needed for us to get to go, but I _want_ to go. Please?” She rubs the side of her face across his, apparently uncaring that he’s not washed up at all in the past 20 hours.  
  
“We’ll see, my beauteous goblin,” Bard says, always unwilling to promise something he’s unsure he can keep. In truth, a trip to the beach does feel the ultimate reward after being browbeaten for the past month, but he hesitates to raise any of his children’s hopes up for now. In reply, Tilda gives him a sloppy kiss on his eye before demanding to be let down and running straight towards the bus without looking back.  
  
As the bus trundles off Bard is afforded a peek at Thranduil’s house adjacent. It’s still early enough that the car is still there, freshly-polished by Galion, and there are some lights on in the front room. It hasn’t really changed much on the outside since the Greenleafs’ arrival, apart from the grass being trimmed once a week by a local gardener. The jungle-like growth of plants by the sides still runs rampant, and their shadows seemingly enshroud the house as though it were a secret, and Bard decides it matches the current residents quite well. Despite Thranduil and Legolas already having been in San Martin for nearly three weeks – inclusive of the two times the Greenleafs had gone to their house, aptly labeled by Bard in his head as The Rooster Breakfast and the Late Night Schedule Swap – and their strange carpool setup, Bard has to admit he doesn’t really know their new neighbors quite as much as he’d like.  
  
_After all this, we can probably have a proper welcome dinner. Or a daytrip of sorts…_ Bard muses, remembering Tilda’s request just minutes before. There’s an odd flutter in his stomach at the thought of planning anything with Thranduil apart from fetching their children, but he quickly quashes it down as he turns to go back into the house.  
  
Morning routine now done, he starts mentally preparing himself for the task at hand. These last few reports are the longest and bloodiest and he needs at least two more cups of coffee before he can really get into the groove of it and be able to pass this last one on time. After he puts the latest load of laundry in and rinses the breakfast dishes enough for them to be considered half-washed, he puts his phone on silent mode and blocks his emails for the next six hours, setting up camp on the couch as the living room slowly grows warm with the rising sun, the air-conditioning having already been turned off. Bard stays resolute in his spot as the hours slip by, hunched over his laptop as he crunches numbers and presents his graphs and maps and charts, his glasses sliding forward to perch precariously on the end of his nose.  
  
He doesn’t notice what time it is but the report is just about done when a sharp rapping suddenly echoes throughout his house, resulting in his laptop almost getting itself pitched from his knees to the floor.  
  
“For fuck’s sake—!” Bard says, his heart thundering against his chest. He’s more startled than angry and if his report hadn’t already been finished then his mood would be very foul indeed. The living room is already steeped in sleepy afternoon heat, and it’s only now that he notices his shirt is soaked with perspiration. He feels disgusting, but still quite triumphant. He takes a mental note to shower for at least two hours as soon as he’s able to send his document across, quite unaware that as he’s thinking this, he’s already making his way across to the front door to open it to whoever was knocking.  
  
“I…Bard?”  
  
The low velvet tones of Thranduil’s voice cut through the fog of numbers and sentence fragments in Bard’s mind and his head instinctively snaps up. Thranduil is staring at him from his doorstep, bathed in so much sunlight that Bard can scarcely see him at first. When his vision adjusts, he finds his neighbor with a look of mild astonishment on his face, as though he was the one who had been suddenly interrupted from his work rather than the other way around. He sees as Thranduil quickly takes in the sight of him, his rumpled dress shirt, and boxers festooned with cartoon Marios, before his eyes shutter and his expression is swiftly replaced by a smooth mask of diplomatic courtesy.  
  
“Hello, Thranduil,” Bard says in greeting, hoping to end the conversation as quickly as possible. At the moment, the other man looks to be the epitome of an expat, with his outfit comprised of an immaculate linen shirt tucked into well-fitting khakis and brown Oxfords, a pair of sunglasses snug in one of his breast pockets, and his short blonde hair being tousled lightly in the breeze. Compared to him, Bard feels like an oil spill.   
  
“I…ah…is now a bad time?” The other man asks, his tone neutral, and suddenly Bard is filled with the urge to slam the door in his face, hide in his bedroom, and never come out.  
  
“What time even is it?” He tries to quell his rising embarrassment as he looks for his watch. He knows he’d had one at some point in the night but it’s no longer on his wrist.  
  
“Just a little before 4…” Thranduil supplies, not even bothering to check his own watch. There’s a strange undercurrent in his tone of voice, a sliver of uncertainty that snags at Bard’s attention. Based on previous encounters with their new neighbor, Thranduil has always exuded an air of quiet self-confidence, sometimes even bordering on arrogance and self-entitlement. Bard lifts his head to take a closer look at the other man.  
  
“Are you all right? What’s going on?” he asks, unsure if he even wants to hear. He doesn’t exactly know what to do if it ends up that Thranduil’s just done something that could land him in jail. He runs through his head the other scenario his neighbor might be here. “The kids are ok, right? You’re supposed to be picking them up, not me?”  
  
At this, the other man sighs almost exasperatedly. “Of course the children are all right. I don’t have to pick them up until 4:30.”  
  
“Okay, good,” The muscles in Bard’s shoulders that had started to tense now loosen and he visibly sags. He feels like he can only handle so much more stress before exploding. “All right, tell you what, just come in. I need to send my report in ASAP anyway and you can just…talk, or whatever it is you need to do.”  
  
He opens the door wider to let Thranduil through before quickly jogging back towards his laptop. The file is larger than usual and is taking a while to upload. Great. His distraction is suddenly torn between the concern that his report might not be sent on time, and the fact that his very tall, very good-looking neighbor is in his very messy living room with him while he’s looking like a sack of shit.  
  
“I tried to call, but you weren’t picking up. So I’ve come to just see in person. I do apologize for the intrusion…”  
  
“Oh cut to the chase,” Bard says, humiliation at the situation quickly wearing his patience thin. “What’s up? What do you need? You’re not in trouble, are you?”  
  
“What? No,” Thranduil sounds all at once haughty and miserable, and Bard hears him take a breath before continuing. “I…had just wanted to ask if Gandalf had informed you of this dinner he was throwing? Apparently he sent invites, but I never got mine and he said he has one every year for the new ones on the island.”  
  
Bard waits if there’s a continuation to this rant. Yes, of course he knows the dinners. Being the most well-known and well-established expat on the island, the annual fetes are publicly announced as Gandalf’s way of having the new folks meet the rest of the community, although Bard also doesn’t doubt it’s the old man’s way of secretly keeping tabs on everyone. It’s mostly a networking event than anything, and he only enjoys going because of the exquisite food that’s always served. He can do without the shoulder-rubbing, if he’s honest; the entire event in itself is quite like a baptism by fire into whether or not you’ll be accepted as part of the expat community.  
  
“Yes…?” he says, when Thranduil doesn’t continue. He’s not altogether sure where this conversation is going.  
  
“Well, he invited me personally this morning at work.”  
  
“Thranduil, I don’t mean to be rude, but can you get to the point?” Bard says in the nicest tone he can muster. His report has finally finished attaching to the email and he’s finally able to send. He’s tired, anxious, and honestly mortified, so he can only wish for the other man to just ask what he’s come to ask so he can leave and Bard can finish shriveling up in shame and die in peace.  
  
Thranduil ignores his statement, not seeming to care for the situation he’s placed themselves in. He seems more at ease now, the usual annoyance creeping into his tone. “Do you even _go_ to these things?”  
  
“Uh, yes,” Bard straightens and counts with his fingers. “Food last year had oysters as big as your _palm,_ giant king crab, palm salad, _suckling pig…_ ”  
  
“Are you honestly telling me you go for the food?” Thranduil almost wears a look of disdain, crossing his arms over his chest. “Where do you even leave your kids?”  
  
“They come with me. Gandalf has a room set up for the kids where they can watch movies and things.” He rolls his eyes at the expression on Thranduil’s face. “Oh come on, Thranduil, it’s not _that bad._ All you have to do is smile and wave. _” Where even is this conversation going?_ “So what if you got an invitation…?”  
  
“Don’t _you_ have one?”  
  
“Possibly,” he gestures towards the pile of unread mail on the kitchen counter. “I haven’t been able to check yet but all the expats are invited every year.”  
  
“What if you don’t go?”  
  
“Well…you kind of _have_ to go if you’re new,” Bard tells him. It’s not a lie; from his years in the international development scene, the smaller and more rural your place of assignment is, the more crucial it is that you show up at the getting-to-know-you dinners at least once. It’s a small circle they already belong in, and it often does no good to alienate yourself from it, especially with a lot of them being terrible gossips. “Me, I’ve done my debut so I can make do with skipping once or twice.”  
  
Thranduil looks disgusted, arms still tight across his chest. “What is this, politics?”  
  
“Worse. Expat life.”  
  
He doesn’t have to explain it twice. He knows Thranduil would understand the importance of getting to know their network. Their lives in development, no matter how noble the cause that they’re fighting for is, would always really revolve around _who_ you know, not _what_. It’s a truth that he was never at ease with, which is why he’s always played it safe. Attend, smile, shake hands, but never establish any connection that scratched beneath the surface. His wife had been the first he’d done it with, when he was young and new to the work. He hasn’t done it since.  
  
Thranduil is quiet for a moment, as if pondering his next sentence. When he speaks, the odd, unsure tone is back. “Well, since you’re already familiar with these events…could you…”  
  
“Watch Legolas? Sure.” Bard isn’t really thinking. Now that he’s gotten his report out of the way, he wants a shower, a nap, and a hot dinner all at once. He figures if Thranduil will go to the dinner, he can set up the Wii so the kids can tire themselves out. “I have a final budget meeting in two days but it should be good.”  
  
“No, not that. Could you possibly come with me?”  
  
His voice is low and almost a rumble. Bard has to strain to hear it.  
  
“Er…” he replies, brow furrowing. He’s unsure what Thranduil is asking for, and as though sensing his discomfort, the other man hastens to add the next sentence.  
  
“We’ll have to bring the children, of course, that’s non-negotiable, but then as you’ve said, we can leave them in that room you had mentioned. It’s just…I really don’t want to go, but if I have to, I don’t want to do it alone.” Thranduil avoids his eyes, focusing instead on the coffee table currently littered with Tilda’s Lego, and Bard’s various computer accessories. When he does look up, there’s something akin to pleading in his expression, although it very quickly disappears as he straightens his shoulders and stands at attention, possibly bracing himself for disappointment.  
  
Bard can already tell he’s going to hate himself for what will transpire in the next twenty seconds.  
  
“When is it?” he asks, then pretends not to notice the small smile that quirks at the corner of Thranduil’s pale pink lips.  
  
“Tomorrow night.”  
  
Bard almost gapes at him. He must have been so out of the loop to not even have known it. Gandalf’s dinners are always the talk of the town. “Tomorrow night, seriously?”  
  
“Yes.” Thranduil’s self-confidence is back, and he holds his chin high. It now feels as if it had been Bard who had begged to be his wingman just minutes past, the bastard. “We won’t stay for long, I’m sure, as the children would be tired from school still.”  
  
“And I’ll still have a meeting to prepare for the next day…” Bard rubs at his eyes, already realigning his task schedule. Exhaustion tugs at his bones. “Ugh.”  
  
“Call this a favor,” Thranduil says, his tone now less assertive. There is guilt mixed in with it, but nevertheless he doesn’t back down. “I will forever be indebted to you.”  
  
Bard thinks of making him pick up the kids every day for the next six months but thinks better of it.  
  
“I’ll do it on one condition,” he says, and manages a grin when Thranduil’s eyebrow quirks up attentively. He probably didn’t expect him to call in his favor right away.  
  
“Name it.”  
  
“Coral Island. Tilda wants to go, and I’ve been working like a dog the past few weeks, and we haven’t really gotten to know each other properly yet. We’re still practically strangers,” he says with a shrug, although his heart is frantically beating against his ribcage. “Our kids know each other and they love hanging out, so it would be good if we all went down and just...hang out there for a weekend or so.”  
  
“Hang out?” Thranduil says the words the same way Bard imagines he’d say ‘dirty socks’. His dark eyebrows have come together on his brow, making him look both perplexed and curious. Bard suddenly has the urge to kiss his forehead.  
  
_Wait, what?  
  
_ “Yes, hang out,” Bard struggles to keep his breathing steady, quite a feat since he is highly aware that he’s still indecently dressed and therefore quite exposed. He foolishly wishes he’d worn shorts at least, but he couldn’t have known anyone of importance would be dropping by. And, really, ‘anyone of importance’ thirty minutes ago would only have been his mother. He’s not sure when Thranduil had sneaked himself into that category.  
  
Nevertheless, he surreptitiously shifts to stand behind the couch to be safe.  
  
“We’ll have a bonfire, do some swimming, have a couple of beers, grill a few things. It’ll be great.”  
  
He’s talking as though he has a nervous tic. With great effort, he wills himself to shut up before he can dig himself further into a hole. Unfortunately, the hole is already dug, and he’s well into it. Neck-deep.  
  
“All right,” Thranduil says with a small nod. “Legolas would like that, I believe. He does like Tilda and the others very much.”  
  
“Great.”  
  
“I believe I may have already taken up too much of your time. I’ll go and pick up the children and have them safely back. But…tomorrow night then?” Thranduil turns to leave.  
  
“Tomorrow night.” Bard confirms. “We’ll bring our car so we can convoy.”  
  
“Excellent.” An open smile breaks out on the other man’s face, and Bard can’t help but wonder if this is what Thranduil had looked like, before whatever had befallen them had happened. He hasn’t forgotten the wounds he’d seen on Thranduil’s side, how it looked angry and festering still. He’s held off googling his new neighbor mostly out of respect, but also because he’s not entirely sure how he’d feel once he’d start reading about a wife he knows is already gone.  
  
“Oh, and Bard?”  
  
Bard looks up, once more shaken out of his thoughts. Thranduil is still standing at his doorway, a hint of his previous smile still dancing on his lips. Bard is certain his breath catches for a second. In that moment he thinks only two things:  
  
_Goddammit, the man is relentless,  
  
_ and  
  
_Goddammit, the man is beautiful.  
  
_ “Hm?” Bard says, uttering the only sound his vocal chords can currently make.  
  
“That shirt matches terribly with those Marios.”  
  
It takes all of Bard’s inner strength to not launch a heavier, more substantial object at Thranduil, rather than the pillow that was within reach.  
  
“Go to hell,” he says, though his words barely have any heat in them. “You bastard. Coming into _my house_ asking _me_ for a favor…”  
  
The deep, rumbling laugh that emanates from Thranduil as he finally leaves is so sudden and surprising that Bard finds himself staring at the door and wanting to reach out, touch his wrist, and say _no please, stay a bit more,_ but the moment is fleeting and the laughter is soon gone, Thranduil with it.  
  
  
  
  
  
(And in the silence that abruptly follows, Bard knows he will stop at nothing to hear that sound again and again and again.)  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what I had wanted to do in this chapter? A PTA meeting. You know what these two wanted? A two-chapter dinner party. @_@ OMG.
> 
> THANK YOU TO ALL THOSE WHO DROPPED COMMENTS AND KUDOS. I really love hearing your insights and if you have any questions, please feel free to ask! I work in development as well, so most of the stuff that these two will be encountering are based off of my own experiences. The world of expats is a tough one, honestly. It's like Real Housewives of [insert name of beautiful unspoiled island nation here]. I've never really seen single dads in this line of work though (and I don't think I will in the near future -- it's just such a difficult job to be in), so however Bard and Thran react is purely from my own imagination.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil and his Feelings.

Friday morning finds Thranduil feverish and with a deep ache in his bones.  
  
He isn’t ill, not really, but his sleep had been fitful and his dreams disjointed, a whirling mess of light and sound that’s only left him confused, as if he hadn’t even been asleep at all. Legolas, empathetic to a fault and clingy at the worst moments, makes such a terrible ruckus at the suggestion that Galion help him get ready for school that Thranduil is more or less coerced to keep him home. Tear-stained and with hiccupping breaths, he latches onto his father, snuffling wetly against his chest, as though fearful he might disappear. On normal days, Thranduil would wonder if the entire act would finally prove his failing as a parent, but it’s all a bit hazy at not-even-six-in-the-morning that he promptly falls back asleep the moment Legolas quiets down, and this time the troublesome dreams are kept at bay.  
  
The next time he wakes, the room is wrapped in cool velvet darkness; the air-conditioning is still on and with the shades drawn, Thranduil has no idea what time it is. He vaguely remembers having an appointment and is trying to blindly root around for his phone when a soft knock sounds on the bedroom door.  
  
“Come in,” he says automatically, and promptly winces. His voice is hoarse and rougher than he’d like. The door is gently pushed open and Galion peeks in, his figure a silhouette against the bright white sunlight in the hallway.  
  
“Sir.” Galion says, and it’s only now that Thranduil notices that he’s carrying a tray with two bowls of…is that soup? “Mr. Bowman from next door brought you something to eat.”  
  
The words seem to ring in Thranduil’s head. “Pardon?”  
  
“If you don’t mind…” Galion gestures to the bedside table and when Thranduil acquiesces, he places the tray on the empty space, turning the lamp on as he does so. Black wooden tray, two bowls (one bright blue, one bone china) of steaming liquid (chicken, macaroni, carrots, milky base – some sort of hodgepodge chicken noodle soup?), the warm vapors of which clear the fog in Thranduil’s brain a little, and two spoons (one a proper soup spoon, and one of a Sesame Street variety). He stares at the mismatched tea set that’s been set within arm’s reach of him and then makes to sit up. His side, still on its way to healing, throbs angrily in protest at the movement and sends a shooting pain up and down his left arm which leaves Thranduil pale. Galion, somehow always unperturbed by these moments of weakness, is ready to brace him so he doesn’t end up knocking it all to the floor.  
  
“Thank you,” Thranduil breathes when the pain passes, as it often does. Galion acknowledges him with a small nod. The older man is dependable and trustworthy, and Thranduil is grateful for him. “Where did you say this came from?” He points to the tray though he already heard the first time. He just has to check to see if his hearing hasn’t gone.  
  
“Mr. Bowman from next door. He’d come over a while ago to ask if you were all right and I told him you were having a bit of a rest. Then he gave all of these not even ten minutes ago.”  
  
Bard. Something clicks into place. Messy hair, Mario underwear, rum-brown eyes wide. Thranduil starts rummaging around for his phone again and not until a loud clatter resounds from metal hitting the hardwood floor does he find it. His message inbox has one from Gandalf acknowledging his taking the day off but still hoping he could come to the party that afternoon, and at least 10 from Bard, all in varying degrees of I-write-my-texts-based-on-how-many-letters-there-are-in-can-of-alphabet-soup.  
  
 _R u ok? Car+Galion stil ther. Leg ok?  
  
_ _Galion sez u resting. R u ill or ur tryn 2 gt awy frm Gndlfs party.  
  
_ _Coral Isle stil stnds btw. F u renege, ur telling Sig & Tild. __J  
  
_ _Ok Galion sd ur stil slpng. Myb truth thn?  
  
_ _Wil pik up kids bt lft soup w Galion. Tray & bowls r mine mind. Dnt break thm.  
  
_ _If ur still up 2 prty, snd me msg. Kids nd I r stil going.  
  
_ _Wud b nice 2 stil have u nd Leg ther.  
  
_ The double reminder from Gandalf and Bard about the party – the party he’d invited Bard to, in a rare moment of unexplained bravado that he now wholly regrets – feels like a stone’s been dropped cold in his stomach. He kneads his forehead with the base of his palm, more than aware that he’s now painted himself into a corner. His current exhaustion hampering his capability to argue with either Bard or Gandalf aside, he knows only too well how crucial it is that he shows up to these mixers at least once. He’s been to plenty to know that the first in the new fiscal year is always the most important one; the rest of the year’s work may depend on the relationships you form and cultivate on that first get-together.  
  
 _Fuck._ He chides himself. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck.  
  
_ He doesn’t know if it’s because Bard’s text monologue is annoying or if it’s endearing, that he’s compelled to text back, but he does: _Am fine. Thanks for the soup. See you. 6 PM. P.S. Don’t call my son ‘Leg’.  
  
_ He switches his phone off afterward, not wanting to be bothered by any further details of the ordeal to take place that night. Irritation and nausea overcome him in waves and he tosses his phone aside to prevent him from throwing it at the other end of the room. Galion, already quite adept at reading his moods, excuses himself and quietly shuffles out. If Thranduil didn’t have Legolas to take care of he’d have gladly gone back to sleep and hope to not wake until the next morning, but as it stands, it’s noon on the dot and he has to at least feed his child.  
  
Legolas is lying horizontal on the bed, his toes digging into his father’s right side. Thranduil is still nauseated and his anxiety is growing, but Legolas’ presence and baby powder-scent calms him, and he starts breathing deeper. He wakes Legolas by tracing his finger across his son’s peach-soft forehead. He knows he’s successful when small hands pull his head down onto a bony chest against a tiny, persistent heartbeat. His and Lindariel’s little miracle. Thranduil can feel tears prick the corner of his eyes.  
  
“Are you better now, Ada?”  
  
“Mmh. Maybe. Not sure.” Little fingers tug on his hair. “Leaf.”  
  
Anxiety locks him in a tight grip and it takes all of Thranduil’s willpower to not vomit onto the sheets. _Why are we here, what am I doing, have I already irreparably damaged Legolas, why the fuck is parenting so hard, how do I survive this, I can’t do this…  
  
_ “Ada?”  
  
A lump has formed in his throat and makes it hard for Thranduil to talk. “Yes?”  
  
“Why does it smell like chicken…?”  
  
“Are you hungry?” The world stops spinning out of orbit, prevents him from hurling himself into space. He goes back to what’s safe, what’s defined and controllable. Thank Bard for this at least, because he doesn’t think he can leave the bed for three more hours. “Mr. Bowman made us soup...”  
  
Turns out Legolas is famished, and Thranduil happily lets him have both bowls, with him accepting spoonfuls only whenever his son insists. He conveniently forgets that they shouldn’t eat in bed, which brightens Legolas’ mood. When they’re done, they set aside the tray and bowls and Legolas teaches him a few words in the local language that he’s learned in school: _‘para’ for ‘stop’, ‘adlaw’ for ‘day’…no Ada, you’re pronouncing it wrong._ They read a chapter of The Witches and then Thranduil allows for his laptop to be set up so Legolas can watch Robin Hood for the millionth time. At some point, Elrond also calls on Skype, explaining that he’s working late anyway, and proves to be a happy distraction, with Legolas suddenly talking a mile a minute about his classmates, his school, and the Bowmans next door. Thranduil pretends not to see when Elrond gives him a quick glance at the mention of Bard’s name.  
  
By the time it’s 5 PM and already dangerously close to the rendezvous time he’s set up with Bard, both he and Legolas have calmed down enough to take a shower without complaint (Legolas) and to not need any additional medication apart from Tylenol (Thranduil). As the minutes tick by, however, his restlessness returns. His hands shake as he attempts three times to knot Legolas’ bow tie and eventually he has to give up. He wishes he had some alcohol to help tide him over. When the doorbell finally rings at exactly 6 PM, Thranduil almost barricades himself inside the bathroom.  
  
Legolas answers it, nearly tripping as he flies across the length of the house with Thranduil close at his heels. Bard is there, at the doorstep, looking like an ultimately different version of what Thranduil remembers from yesterday: the lines of his trim body are sleek and long in dark jeans and a well-fitting cotton blazer over a plain white v-necked shirt. His hair is styled as though he’s just run his fingers through it without looking once at a mirror, and his chin has just enough stubble to make him look roguishly and infuriatingly handsome.  
  
 _Oh God,_ is what Thranduil thinks before he can stop himself. Bard looks up, and the smile that he throws at them is enough to make Thranduil’s mouth go dry.  
  
“I didn’t think you were serious about still going so I rang the bell to check for myself,” Bard says, eyes glinting mischievously. His cologne wafts off of him and the scent reminds Thranduil of rich earth and deep, dark waters. “I was looking forward to watching you tell Sig and Tild that Coral Island would be cancelled since you didn’t live up to your part of the deal.”  
  
Thranduil clears his throat. “Sorry to disappoint.”  
  
Bard falls quiet then, and peers at Thranduil. “Are you really sick? Kidding aside, you do look a tad unwell.”  
  
“It’s just a cold. Or a 24-hour bug. Nothing serious.” He clears his throat again; it’s become inconveniently tight. “Thank you for the soup, however. It was delicious.”  
  
Bard looks pleased. “Old secret recipe. One of the first ones I taught myself to make after…well…after my wife died.”  
  
 _Ah, and there it is.  
  
_ “At any rate,” Bard continues smoothly, “it’s a simple enough recipe so I can teach it to you if you want. I didn’t hear anything breaking so I can conclude that my fine china is still usable?”  
  
Thranduil surprises even himself by laughing. “They’re still in the bedroom but we’ll wash them for you, Mister Bard,” he hears Legolas pipe up from beside him. He’s been watching them from his spot by the doorframe, one hand curled around Thranduil’s belt loops. Bard beams down at him.  
  
“Hello, Master Legolas! Did you have a nice time with your Ada today? We missed you during the car ride back home.”  
  
Legolas shuffles closer to Thranduil and clutches his leg, like a baby koala. Thranduil places a comforting hand on his head and is again painfully reminded of how young his son still is; even with shoes, Legolas is barely a meter tall. He doesn’t remember how small his son had been when his wife died.  
  
“Ada and I ate in bed,” Legolas says almost shyly. “We’re not supposed to but we did.” Thranduil wants to remind him it isn’t something they’ll be doing often, but he doesn’t have the heart to.  
  
“I’m all for that,” Bard is grinning, eyes darting mischievously at Thranduil’s direction. He straightens, then claps his hands. Thranduil sees, for the first time, Bard’s waiting SUV on the street, three kids dressed and primped already inside. Sigrid waves at him cheerfully from the front seat, the dying sunlight painting her pink and purple.  
  
“All right, if you guys are all set, what I was thinking was we’ll follow your lead. Galion knows the way,” Bard says. “It’s not really that far off.”  
  
Thranduil is ready to agree to anything. He just wants it to be over. He swallows his apprehension and stands a bit straighter.  
  
“Let’s go then.”

 

* * *

 

Gandalf apparently doesn’t even live in San Martin per se, but in a neighboring island called San Isidro, connected to the rest of them via a stone bridge built over the gulf. The sky’s remaining light fades quickly. Soon, the roads are plunged into darkness, their way lit only by streetlamps every 25 meters or so. Thranduil closes his eyes often and tries not to think of That Night. Halfway through the trip, he resolves to finally turn on the light inside the car.  
  
San Isidro doesn’t seem to be as dense as San Martin. The houses are bigger, more luxurious, and are more set apart, although between them are often huge swaths of land or wet paddy fields. Gandalf lives in a sprawling bungalow atop a hill surrounded by coconut trees. It stands on low stilts in the customary style of the island, and has a wraparound porch currently lit up by fairy lights.  When they arrive, parking the cars on the large expanse of land among a smattering of other vehicles, the old man is standing outside on the porch, smoking a pipe, dressed in Bermuda shorts and a shirt bedecked in pineapples. He raises a hand in greeting as they approach, before strolling over to them in the slow rolling gait Thranduil has known since boyhood.  
  
“Greetings and glad tidings,” Gandalf’s eyes crinkle when he speaks, and he gives Thranduil a handshake accompanied by a kiss on both sides of the cheek, a customary greeting from a generation back that reminds Thranduil too much of his father. The scent that wafts off of him smells of pipe smoke, jasmine tea, and just the slightest hint of gunpowder. “I’ve had to leave my other guests to watch out for you. I’m glad to see you all here.”  
  
Bard’s children fidget excitedly as Gandalf hands them individually-wrapped bonbons that he produces from his pocket. He also gives Legolas one, although Thranduil has to remind his son to say thank you. At the mention of a superhero movie that’s waiting for them in the den, they all seem to give a collective gasp, even Legolas, and soon Thranduil’s arms are empty, devoid of his son as he agreed to letting Sigrid take him inside to the brightly-lit house.  
  
“Oh Professor Grey. You spoil them so. I had planned to use that movie as a bribe somewhat. It’s not showing here for another month.” Bard tsks good-naturedly beside him.  
  
“Pardon an old man for his indulgences,” says Gandalf not looking sorry at all. “Kili had given me a copy of it earlier this week and I thought of no one else who’d appreciate it more.”  
  
Thranduil says nothing. The absence of his son makes him feel unmoored and ultimately more vulnerable, but he doesn’t say it. Gandalf seems to notice this, and reaches over to pat him comfortingly on the arm.  
  
“Thank you for coming, my boy,” he says softly, and then to Bard, “and thank you, Bard, for also accepting. I do love having you and the children around. You know we have very few young ones. I can’t help but spoil them a little bit when they come over.”  
  
“It’s quite all right, Professor Grey. Thank you for having us as well.”  
  
“Bard, my boy, I’m sure I’ve told you time and again to cease with the titles. Gandalf, if you please, and at your service.” Gandalf clucks. Bard laughs; it’s a low, pleasant sound, and slowly, Thranduil feels himself start to relax.  
  
“Big crowd?” Bard asks.  
  
“Oh, just the usuals. And some you may not have met.” Gandalf gives a non-committal shrug. “Come come, I’m sure you’re all raring for a drink or two.”  
  
There is music wafting out from indoors, a pleasant waltz that drifts through the open windows and is carried along by the soft sea breeze. The sky has taken on a darker indigo hue, streaked with fingers of vermillion and tangerine and providing a stark, dramatic backdrop to the house, lending it an almost ethereal glow. The air is rife with scents of various food cooking: roast pig, drawn butter, grilled squid, sautéed garlic. There are also people already milling about inside, their laughter and various conversations clinking like crystals. Thranduil nearly starts when he feels a touch, lighter than air, brush alongside the small of his back.  
  
“You all right?” Bard’s voice rumbles beside him, his face sharp planes and angles in the dying light. His mouth is curled upward into a smile. Ahead of them, Gandalf is blowing smoke rings into the air above his head as he walks, leaving just enough space between him and the pair of them to be able to converse more privately.  
  
Thranduil nods, tries hard not to shudder. He succeeds, but only just. “Of course.”  
  
“All right, just making sure. You look like a spooked horse.”  
  
“I’m fine.” Then, after a beat. “Just show me where the drinks are.”  
  
Bard’s smile suddenly expands into a grin, eyes suddenly glinting with boyish mischief in the twilight. He clasps a hand on Thranduil’s shoulder, his palm hot and the heat of it seeping through the fabric of Thranduil’s shirt. The gesture is sudden and surprising, and normally Thranduil would jerk away, but something about Bard holds him fast, like a lighthouse in the storm.  
  
“You came with the right guy then.” Bard says, then cocks his head. “Just follow my lead.”  
  
It feels very juvenile, the way they separate from Gandalf the minute they cross the threshold, excusing themselves to head towards the long buffet table that lines the back porch. There are at least 20 people milling about the large open space that serves as the living room, the dining room, and the den (where the children are comfortably squashed up on the L-shaped sofa in front of the large TV), but Bard knows how to traverse it in a way where they don’t get interrupted from their mission. Thranduil sees from the corner of his eye some of the guests turn their heads as they pass but he declines to look, and they’re able to make their way to the well-stocked bar next to the dessert table without a fuss. He thanks Bard when he hands him a sweating bottle of beer. Not his typical drink but at least it’s Blue Mountain. _Fuck, yes_.  
  
“Sweet nectar of the gods,” Bard says approvingly when he catches Thranduil’s enthusiasm. “Gandalf always knows to get the good stuff. Cheers. You look like you need it.”  
  
Thranduil raises his bottle. “To survive this? Yes, maybe.”  
  
“‘This’ as in the party, or _this_?” Bard makes a large circular motion with his arms. “Work? San Martin? Screaming kids at 5AM? Life?”  
  
Thranduil gives him a wry smile, but doesn’t reply.  
  
“This here,” said Bard, motioning to the space they’re in, currently devoid of other people who have all sought refuge in the air-conditioned indoors, “is where I mostly stay. Near the food, away from the crowd. But before we stuff our faces, we have to follow by the rules, or else Gandalf will end up pulling us inside himself.”  
  
Thranduil groans. “Is it not enough that I got out of bed to endure this?”  
  
“Hey, this wasn’t my idea in the first place,” Bard is quick to remind him, although with the familiar puckish gleam in his eyes. “Besides, you can’t be a hermit. Learn the rules, then break ‘em later if you want to. That’s what I say.”  
  
It’s so _typical_ for Bard to hint at rebelliousness that Thranduil has to roll his eyes.  
  
“Of _course_ you would. What _do_ you teach your children, I wonder.”  
  
Bard laughs, taking it all in great stride. “Bain is already an expert in picking locks and has begun to teach Legolas, Sigrid is a cat thief, and Tilda is an expert forger. I’ll teach you to lie between your teeth and have everyone be none the wiser.”  
  
In all honesty, Thranduil is perfectly willing to camp out where they are for the rest of the night and not meet another soul, but he knows the price just as much as Bard does. Their work is not a forgiving one, and isolation is not something that will make it any easier for them. After a few more minutes of Bard’s teasing, he relents, although not easily.  
  
“Ten minutes,” he bargains. “Do the normal small talk, then come back out."  
  
“You’re a real party animal, aren’t you?” The other man raises an eyebrow. “Twenty, or else it’ll look too suspicious. I already know some of the people here, so let me introduce you to them. We’ll work from there.”  
  
He dislikes it still, but finally agrees. They finish their beers in one long pull and Bard leads the way inside. Thranduil wipes his palms on his jeans, inwardly forces himself to feel like an adult who’s got everything in control. His side is throbbing like a war wound, but he can do twenty minutes of forced mingling. Sure.  
  
He trails Bard like a shadow but keeps his sights strictly set on the back of Bard’s neck. Bard moves like a wave amongst the sea of people, the crowd easily shifting for him and his movements. He finally stops in front of a couple who have seemingly claimed a secluded corner between a potted plant and the grandfather clock. Both are fairly young, perhaps in their mid-twenties, and are holding two half-full glasses of wine. They’re far too young and spirited to be truly one of the crowd, and it shows: the male has long, dark, unruly curls that he’s tied back into a messy ponytail, the female with her flame-colored hair done up in a thick side braid and dotted by West Indian Jasmine blossoms the color of pale sunshine. Both are whispering and giggling to each other, so ridiculously in love that Thranduil averts his gaze almost instinctively.  
  
“Kili!” Bard greets, and the male jumps, startled. “There you are, you deviant. Smuggling movies in here, that’s piracy you know.”  
  
“Bard!” Kili says, getting to his feet and giving Bard’s hand an enthusiastic shake. He moves like a colt, long-legged and spry, big barely-controlled gestures. “Long time no see! Yes, most handsome pirate on this side of the Pacific! You’re welcome. How goes it?”  
  
“You’re terrible. I’m not too shabby. This is Thranduil Greenleaf,” There’s a hand on his arm. “My new neighbor, and newest lead economist for Gandalf’s project.”  
  
Thranduil steps forward, gives Kili a small nod, then offers his hand to shake.  
  
“Hello!” Kili says, flashing him a wide smile. “Kili Durinson. Nice to meet you! Where from?”  
  
“Greenwood,” says Thranduil, surprised he even has a voice at all. There’s something familiar about the younger man but the exact connection eludes him at the moment.  
  
Kili’s eyes widen with genuine surprise. “Oh, my wife’s from there! That’s wonderful! Here, Tauriel…” he moves aside to pull in the young woman who had been spending that time watching them amusedly from the sidelines. “Darling, this is Thranduil Greenleaf and Bard Bowman…”  
  
“Yes, I _heard,_ love,” Tauriel says, and it’s with that smooth, gentle patience wives always seem to have in endless supply for their husbands. Something inside of Thranduil shatters upon hearing it, although he masks it under a small smile to return Tauriel’s own. “Tauriel Silvan.”  
  
The last name rings a bell somewhere far back in Thranduil’s memory. It must show, for Tauriel looks pleased. Her spring-green eyes sparkle with mirth.  
  
“I’m glad to have finally met you, Master Greenleaf. I was one of your father’s wards. My father and he were good friends. You were already away at university then so I never really met you, but your father mentioned you a great deal. He was truly a generous soul.”  
  
The story triggers a memory, and Thranduil remembers. “Tauriel Silvan,” he says, partly in awe. It’s true he’s never met her personally, but remembers her name as one that had shown up on his father’s will, that she was an orphan child with a legal guardian, and that a portion of Oropher’s money be placed in trust for her. Thranduil had never questioned it, having already accepted the fact Oropher’s penchant for privacy, even with his own family, would be best left undisputed, but also now feels slightly guilty that he’s never wondered about her. “Well met. I’m glad to see you’ve fared well. Thank you for your kind words.”  
  
“As have you,” she says. She moves forward, touches his hand. _“And I had heard of your recent loss. I am so very sorry,”_ she says in a voice so soft it’s nearly a whisper. She says it in Sindarin, the traditional language still used in Greenwood.  
  
 _"Did you…did you know her?”_ Thranduil can’t help but ask. Lindariel had been well-known in the community, having come from a prominent family and eventually making her own name as a lawyer and advocate for women and children’s rights. His wild, beautiful, kind wife. The prospect of meeting someone who had known her, in San Martin in all places, fills him with equal amounts of dread and joy.  
  
Tauriel shakes her head, her expression morose. “ _Not as much as I’d have liked. She was a senior when I was a freshman in university. But she was very kind to us. She didn’t patronize us like the other seniors did._ _She also acted as a mentor to some of us…”  
  
_ Something seems to snap inside of him and reality floods into him like water from a swollen river. Thranduil tries to smile at Tauriel, but his chest has gotten tight and it’s as if someone has sucked all the air out of the room. “Excuse me,” he mutters, and quickly stalks out, hell-bent on getting as far away from the crowd as possible. He hears footsteps behind him but continues until he reaches the doors that lead out back. When he reaches the porch, he doesn’t stop. He turns right towards the back steps and keeps on going, into the waiting dark.  
  
“Thranduil!” A voice calls behind him. “Thranduil, stop!”  
  
He doesn’t run, but he wants to. He _can’t_ run, even if he wants to, because his side has exploded in pain and every movement is agony. He knows this now, that despite it being closed, stitched over, drenched in antiseptic, this wound will never truly heal. The pain will always be there, and goddammit, he probably deserves it.  
  
He stumbles among the high weeds. Someone grabs his arm, prevents him from falling over. Bard is suddenly in front of him, the smell of his cologne heightened in the muggy air, his face illuminated by the dusty moonlight. His forehead is dotted with beads of sweat, and his eyes are sharp and frantic. Worried. Bard is worried.  
  
“What are you doing? For God’s sake, Thranduil, stop. You’re going to fall into a ditch and break your neck. What’s wrong?”  
  
In that instant Thranduil doesn’t know whether he wants to punch Bard or wrestle him to the ground, but seeing he lacks the strength to do either, he settles for wrenching his arm back from Bard’s grip. The skin from where Bard’s fingers were moments ago feels red-hot, as though he’s been branded.   
  
“Why did you even follow me?” he asks, his tone harsher than he intends. “Get back to the party.”  
  
“Will you stop acting like a crazy person for one second and calm down?” Bard is gripping his shoulders now, holding him in place. His hair is falling into his face but Bard makes no move to swipe it back.  
  
Thranduil bristles. “I _am_ calm. I just wanted some fresh air.”  
  
“The way you’re going it seems that’s code for walking into the ocean and never coming back out.” Bard sounds almost accusing but then he sighs, loosening his hold on Thranduil. An errant breeze whips past, smelling strongly of the sea, and claws through Bard’s hair, leaving it in more of a mess than it already was. Thranduil resists lifting his hand to arrange it back into something more presentable. “Look, I couldn’t help but hear…”  
  
“You speak Sindarin.” It is a statement, not a question. Bard is from Esgaroth. Of course he would be able to.  
  
“I am sorry.”  
  
“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”  
  
“I meant…you have my condolences.”  
  
Thranduil stills at this because for the first time, he hears empathy mingling with sorrow in the words. A shared sadness. When he looks up, Bard has tears pooling in his eyes, but he hastily wipes at them with his sleeve.  
  
“My wife was called Moira,” he says without being prompted. “It was an aneurysm. Tilda had only been baby.”  
  
Thranduil remembers Bard’s children telling him ‘ _Five years’_. Keeping count where their father does not, or cannot.  
  
“I figured this was going to come out sooner or later anyway but I wanted you to hear it from me,” Bard is still talking. “I don’t make it a habit to tell my neighbors my personal history but…”  
  
He trails off, looking unsure now, as if he’s a child that’s been led to speak for so long he’s ended up embarrassing himself. Thranduil turns his gaze downwards, steadying his breath and slowing the roar of blood rushing in his ears.  
  
“You have my sympathies.”  
  
“It was a long time ago.” Bard says, and Thranduil knows it’s probably a lie. He doesn’t think there will be a day when the accident won’t feel as though it had happened just yesterday. He has lost far too much in this life – his mother, his father, his cousin, and now his wife – to underestimate the misery of the passage of time, left only with the thoughts and shadows of the people you once loved.  
  
“The hurt never really goes away, and I know nothing anyone says will really make it feel any better. At any rate…I am sorry.”  
  
Bard’s honesty is one thing that Thranduil has noticed is quite constant, and it’s the very thing that keeps him rooted now. His urge to bolt dissipates.    
  
“My wife…” he says, and almost stops speaking altogether. He’s never voluntarily spoken of Lindariel to anyone else apart from allusions about her with Elrond. The label ‘my wife’ hangs in the air now, heavy as potent gas. His chest is cracking. “Her name…was Lindariel.”  
  
The night of the accident itself is a jumble of memories for him, his wife’s final moments stuttering through his brain: Late-night airport pick-up. Coffee- and cherry-flavored kisses. He had offered to drive the way home. She had sat in the passenger seat curled up like a cat, telling him of Legolas’ antics while he was away. The radio was playing an old rock song when it happened. A truck carrying a ton of scaffolding had stalled on the road without its lights on and Thranduil had seen it too late. Brakes. Ice. A soft body throwing itself on him before a bone-jarring thud. Crash. His body feeling red-hot and ice-cold all at once. Darkness.  
  
When he opens his eyes, he realizes he’s said it out loud. His throat is raw from talking and Bard has a haunted look in his eyes. There are no tears. Thranduil figures neither of them has any left.  
  
“I’ve not told a soul,” Thranduil says, his voice rough. He doesn’t tell Bard of other things. That he can only wish now that he had been holding her when she died, that he had been able to give her that last comfort, or that Celeborn had had her cremated before he had awakened, an act he still both loves and hates his uncle for. “You are the first and last. Kindly keep it that way.”  
  
Bard nods. “Of course.”  
  
They speak no more of it, and although his side is still aching, Thranduil feels as though he’s been cleansed. Partly. He’s trying to regain his breath, filling his lungs with the sweet, perpetually summer-scented air, when fingers brush against his, asking for permission to intertwine. Without a word, he concedes. When their palms meet, Bard’s fingers fall lax for a second before they tighten around Thranduil’s.  
  
“All right now?” Bard asks. It’s a question that can mean a million different things, but to all of them Thranduil will have only one answer.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Bard squeezes his hand again, and he relishes in it, a strange warm feeling spreading across his chest. “We don’t have to go back in for now,” Bard says. “Not if you don’t want to.”  
  
“Ten minutes.”  
  
“All right.”  
  
Bard doesn’t let go of his hand. It’s enough for now.

 

* * *

 

At some point, they return to the party, walking back unhurried across the dry field without once talking but with their fingers still interlaced. They separate automatically upon getting to the back porch, the action necessary as they are reacquainted with the Silvan-Durinsons who are needlessly apologetic. Thranduil, now completely pacified by this time, accepts their apologies under the condition that their dinner be spent with each other’s company. And they do, hiding from Gandalf’s scrutiny and entertaining the children as they emerge from the house, one by one, the two youngest taking turns sitting on their father’s laps before eventually vanishing back into the air-conditioned area. During the entire course of the meal, Bard’s knee rests lightly against Thranduil’s. Thranduil makes no effort to move it away.  
  
He attempts now to know more of the younger couple in front of them. Tauriel is a teacher by trade and Kili is an accountant (“Although I don’t look it!”), although both have put their careers on hold for a year of traveling following their wedding. They are here for their last stop, spending time with Kili’s uncle before they make a decision on their next career moves. Apparently, the Durinsons have a jewelry business that Kili is pressured to take over for but understandably, the younger man is hesitant.  
  
Uncle Thorin keeps hounding me on that ridiculous deadline of his.” Kili makes a face as he pries open his hundredth buttered mussel with his fingers. “The day we arrived here he was already on about it. I had to remind him I still have some months left.”  
  
“Ah, is that what got him in such a foul mood the other week? Really, Kili, you put us all at risk.” Bard turns to Thranduil to explain, “Thorin Oakenshield is our Program Lead. Most cantankerous man you will ever come across.”  
  
This time, it’s Thranduil’s turn to frown. No wonder Kili looks familiar. “You need not explain. We’ve met.”  
  
“You have?” Both Bard and Kili look baffled. Tauriel just looks amused.  
  
Thranduil shrugs. “Small circles. He and I worked on a project once. Grassroot budgeting and the like. We didn’t end on pleasant terms. If he’s here, I’d rather not cross paths if you don’t mind.” He can still remember the last time he and Thorin had encountered each other and he isn’t in the mood to have a repeat of it. To his surprise, Kili gives him an indulgent smile.  
  
“Here here,” he says, looking utterly like a rascal. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”  
  
Thranduil raises his glass of wine in agreement.  
  
The rest of the night passes by swiftly. Gandalf drops in on them once or twice but doesn’t chide them for not joining the crowd. He also brings a few others to them for Thranduil to meet, although Thorin is thankfully not one of them. They leave well before the party wraps up, both he and Bard finding the children in assorted places: Tilda on the sofa; Legolas asleep in the guest bedroom, Bain with him, reading a book; Sigrid in the living room being spoken to by some of Gandalf’s colleagues, sophisticatedly answering questions about her studies and future goals, but more than happy to break away from them the minute Bard comes calling.  
  
They don’t talk once as they’re ushering the children into the car. Thranduil neglects to put Legolas in his car seat for the ride home, settling instead to have his son rest against him as he sleeps, relishing the feel of someone else’s warmth against him. He’s awake for the entire ride but rests heavily against the window, keeping his mind blank as they pass unnoticed through the quiet streets.  
  
When they arrive back in San Martin, Galion offers to carry Legolas into the house but Thranduil declines, thanking him for the overtime done and wishes him a safe trip home. Across the road, Bain and Sigrid shuffle heavy-footed into their own home, and Bard has a sleeping Tilda in his arms. Thranduil approaches, figuring that if he’s to say something it has to be now.  
  
“Bard,” he calls out, though not loud enough to rouse the children. Bard is quick to turn, as if expectant. They meet in the middle of the deserted street, the lone streetlamp by Bard’s house bathing them in a yellow circle of light.  
  
“Thank you,” Thranduil says simply. He knows Bard will understand he means it for more than just acceding to his request to accompany him to the party.  
  
“No problem,” Bard’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, a tiny detail that makes Thranduil’s stomach flutter. He holds out his hand, balancing Tilda on one arm. Thranduil does the same, careful to place Legolas’ weight on his good side. Their fingers intertwine once more, the feel of it so natural, Thranduil doesn’t even want to let go. He knows all too well how quickly this might vanish, this split-second show of affection Bard seems all too willing to give. He doesn’t question it, but already he mourns the loss of it, for he knows reality will always come knocking too soon. For now he’s too vulnerable and weary to reject it, but once the sun rises, he will probably have to look the other way.  
  
“Stop thinking so much,” Bard’s voice floats through the night air, thick with heat and charged with the promise of rain.  
  
“I wasn’t.”  
  
“My children can lie better,” Bard says, amused.  
  
“Bard…” Thranduil turns serious now, willfully ignoring how his insides seem to be doing somersaults underneath his skin. “I’m not one for playing games.”  
  
“I’m not either,” Bard replies, expression equally sober. Then, as if to prove it, he closes the short distance between them, then raises Thranduil’s hand to his lips. A kiss brushes against Thranduil’s skin, tentative and soft. When Bard looks up, there is genuine fear in his eyes, but it quickly vanishes when Thranduil responds in kind, gently opening up the other man’s hand and placing a kiss on his fingertips. This may as well be a dream.  
  
 _What are we doing?  
  
_ “Things may be different in the morning,” Thranduil voices his fear after a rather pregnant pause. Adrenaline has made him slightly dizzy and his heart seems intent to burst out of his chest.  
  
“No, they will not. Not for me at least,” Bard assures him. “But I will not force anything. You’re still grieving.”  
  
Thranduil doesn’t say anything but he nods, because this is true. He doesn’t want…whatever this is…to be a byproduct of the wretched state he’s in and the decisions he makes while in it. Bard is someone he instinctively knows he doesn’t want to lose.  
  
“No promises,” he finally says, giving Bard the last opportunity to back out of this strange arrangement they’re now setting between themselves.  
  
“Not holding out for one,” Bard replies, a hint of a devil-may-care smile on his lips. “This is enough. For now.”  
  
And that, Thranduil finally agrees with.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a monster to make, honestly. Like...I cannot even describe the pain I had to go through to churn this out. I'm sorry for the feelings and angst. Thran really did not want to let the angst go. Conclusion of it all is that they're still both idiot babbys but I love them so. 
> 
> Thank you for everyone who've dropped kudos and comments! They genuinely are such a treat and help the writing go by faster!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OML I'm sorry for disappearing for SO LONG. This fic has always been at the back of my mind but it's always quite hard to put my thoughts about it on paper. Anyway, hope you're still not too bored with these two. This is Part 1 of Coral Island. The Chapter was getting way too long so I decided to cut it up, just for flow.

A week passes. The weather grows steely hot as August reaches its cusp, the sun bobbing high in the sky and bleaching the entire island in sunlight.  
  
Since the night at Gandalf’s, Bard has only seen Thranduil in snatches: fast glimpses as they continue their daily child swap and carpool, their speech during those few precious seconds limited only to what seems necessary -  _Homework checked. Doing well. Thank you. Good night. Till tomorrow –_ as though at some point during their brief candor at the party they had breached a quota on words.  
  
He’s grateful that it’s usually a busy month for the children and so he does not dwell. With work having wound down in preparation for the next fiscal year, he has more than enough time on his hands to run through the to-do list that he’d started filling out in January and has yet to commence on: long-delayed repairs, scheduling holidays, and mending clothing; organizing bill payments, writing correspondences, and checking the children’s calendar of activities (which is really just a whiteboard in the kitchen, updated weekly) to make sure everyone is on track. It takes a while before he notices that Legolas’ name, done in Bain’s neat handwriting, has also found its way into their family scheduler, although Bard has already been automatically checking his schoolwork and keeping track of his various school activities. Having the boy’s name there makes the arrangement feel a bit more permanent, a dangerous concept to subscribe to in their line of work, but he leaves it untouched out of sheer stubbornness. He reasons that it’s what any other parent would do when temporarily entrusted with a child not their own, even though lumping Legolas up under the label “the kids”, which had used to belong to just his brood, feels more natural than it should be.  
  
To Thranduil’s (and even Legolas’) credit, Legolas is easy to care for and look after. Bard quickly learns his likes (peanut butter, cheese, numbers, puzzles) and dislikes (carrots, being interrupted, mismatched socks, crayons without the wrappers), and is able to engage with him at a more familiar level (for some reason, Legolas likes to hold his hand when walking the short path from the school to the car, and sometimes gives his legs a hug as a greeting). He’s respectful of Thranduil’s role as a parent, however, and so makes sure to set boundaries (permissions for any school activities must be granted by Thranduil only and Bard never brings Legolas anyplace but his home without informing Thranduil first; rare tantrums are also dealt with by a swift call to Greenleaf Sr).  
  
He knows how it feels, to be unmoored and detached from what’s stable and familiar with a child (or several, in his case) in hand, and knows how grateful he would have been if he’d had someone to help out during those first few tumultuous years. So he extends his patience to its limits, trains himself to bite his tongue and smile readily, yet carefully maintains his distance and takes his cues from Thranduil, who barely steps over the threshold to his home but always unwillingly offers him a beautiful, relieved smile once Legolas is deposited back into his care at the end of each day.  
  
“Sorry, I…” Thranduil says at pickup the end of the week, hefting his slumbering son onto his shoulder and looking at Bard with eyes that speak of a hundred more unspoken apologies. His face is drawn and tired, the shadows making his features more pointed than they really are; work with Gandalf has started in full swing, yet he picks Legolas up at 8 on the dot each evening that Bard has him. He also always manages to stay impeccably groomed despite the pressing heat and damp air outside, and the stress to be found both at home and at work. Bard hates him a little bit for it, to be honest. _Good-looking bastard_. “I mean, you must be so swamped—”  
  
“It’s all right.” Bard cuts him off before he can stop himself, and Thranduil looks up, surprised at his reply. For a moment, Bard panics internally, belatedly realizing that this is a break from their usual pattern of conversation since That Night. He backtracks and blurts the next thing on his mind. “You look like death warmed over.”  
  
Thranduil gives a low laugh, the rumbling like the sound of distant thunder. “Consistent in your brand of tactfulness, I see.” He runs a hand, still pale despite the incessant sun, down his face. “Yes, I know. I _feel_ it.”  
  
Bard relaxes slightly, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. “It’ll settle.”  
  
“Yes.” Pale eyes dart towards the expanse beyond Bard: messy living room, messier kitchen, but with the muted sounds of three freshly-showered children squabbling over what movie to watch before bedtime, a special treat for Friday nights. Bard catches as Thranduil’s expression softens a fraction, as though he’s just realized he’s in a safe space. It’s something that only lasts a second, before it disappears to rest beneath the guarded façade Bard is now frustratingly familiar with.  
  
Bard hands him Legolas’ backpack, shaped adorably like a leaf. “Homework checked already. Periodicals next week, and he got three gold stars for participation just for today.”  
  
“By participation the teacher may mean ‘being too talkative’.” Thranduil’s mouth quirked up at the corners and Bard feels his chest clench. “Thank you, Bard.”  
  
“Always. See you Monday.  
  
“Till then.”  
  
Thranduil shuffles off the front steps and down Bard’s walkway, dry as dust in the oppressive heat. Galion has already parked the car in the garage and is waiting to receive them at the open gate. Thranduil glances back, once, and only for a few seconds, before he resumes his trek to his house across the road, holding Legolas close against his chest, the leaf backpack swinging from its strap on the crook of his arm. Bard watches as he goes, filled with a growing sense of something like hope.  
  
Another week begins. A new fiscal cycle commences at the Bank, and work for Bard resurfaces in slow tranches.  
  
“Da,” Sigrid says late Wednesday evening as they sit amongst a heap of papers, hers for Algebra and his for regression models, at the dining-room table. It’s been a week and a half since Gandalf’s party. “The periodical exams are due to end by Friday.” She taps her pencil against the wood grain. “Da, are you listening?”  
  
“Of course, darling.” Bard doesn’t really know why it’s being raised; he’s spent the better half of the previous week reviewing four children on their various lessons. Now he’s just getting caught up on his own deliverables. He waits for Sigrid to get to the point, which thankfully, doesn’t take long.  
  
“Well, after the exams, can we _please_ already go to Coral Island? I mean, you’ve already said yes. Can we already go this coming weekend?”  
  
Bard glances up at his daughter, not having expected _that_ particular request. “Er…we promised Mr. Greenleaf we’d take him and Legolas to Coral Island with us.”  
  
“Yes, Da, I know. That’s the whole point?” Sigrid stares at him with that all-too recognizable teenage expression that silently says _I love you, but sometimes you’re so weird._ “It’ll be after everyone’s exams, including Legolas’. Besides, Tilda has been telling him about it this entire time, so it would be mean if he’s not with us when we do.”  
  
Bard is flustered for a reason he can’t place. “We’d have to ask Mr. Greenleaf. It’s already Wednesday. We’d have to prepare…”  
  
“Da, we have enough supplies because we were supposed to go for my birthday, remember? We only have to buy food.” That part is true. Because it had rained on Sigrid’s birthday weekend, ruining any plans of a beach luau party, Bard had decided to just treat them to a short trip to Tokyo a few weeks later instead. All their beach camping supplies are still fully stocked and ready.  
  
“Sig…” He tries another route. “Mr. Greenleaf does have work. I’m not sure if he’ll be available…”  
  
“Da, _please,_ we’ve been waiting to go to the Island for so long, and this weekend is _perfect._ Besides, you guys do deserve a break. It’s just a weekend.” They’d make good lawyers, his children. For that he blames his wife.  
  
“I know, but it’s just so _sudden._ I’m not sure how Thranduil will take it.”  
  
Thranduil’s name rolls of his tongue so naturally he doesn’t even notice he’s said it right away. When he realizes it seconds later, he’s horrified, not quite ready for any of his children to know about…whatever this is. Thankfully, Sigrid doesn’t seem to have noticed, or if she had, doesn’t care enough to pay it any mind. When he looks up, she’s busily shuffling her papers about, done with her reviewing for the night.  
  
“Sig.”  
  
“I know, Da.” His firstborn’s smile is an echo of one of his own, which makes Bard nervous. He knows whenever _he_ smiles that way, that there’s mischief afoot. “Leave it up to me. Mr. Greenleaf has carpool duty tomorrow.”  
  
This is not his plan. “ _Sig._ No.”  
  
“I’ll just ask him, Da. It’s no big deal.”  
  
 _It kind of is_ , he wants to say, but Bard can’t find it in him to explain. He decides instead to just take the proactive route, and whips out his phone. “Okay, okay, let me do it, all right? Since it’ll be an excursion, let me discuss it with him. Parent to parent.”  
  
Sigrid looks at him doubtfully. “You might dissuade him.”  
  
Bard almost laughs. His daughter’s snark combined with the knowledge of how wrong she is, fills him with mirth. _If you only knew.  
  
_ “I’ll talk to him first and see if he and Legolas are available. No saying yes or no yet, but I promise not to sway his decision.”  
  
“Why don’t we—”  
  
“Nope, no more bargaining. Case closed.” His parenting style with Sigrid is one wherein he always has to remind her that he _does_ have the final say in everything, at least for now, while they’re all still living underneath his roof. He touches his daughter’s cheek and nudges it affectionately. “Promise, I’ll ask him in the morning.”  
  
“Ok. I’ll know anyway because I’ll ask him in the afternoon to verify.”  
  
“…You’re impossible.”  
  
“Your daughter.” Sigrid says, winking at him. She gathers her things into a pile – a small mountain of pens, pencils, rulers, and papers – and sets it aside on the counter. “Early swim practice tomorrow. Good night, Da.” She kisses him hard on the forehead as he envelopes her in a tight hug. She manages to eventually wriggle away, blowing kisses at him as she scuttles off towards her bedroom, bare feet slapping noisily against the wooden floor. “Love you!”  
  
Bard lied because his text to Thranduil is sent that same night, only minutes after Sigrid disappears. It’s short and simple – _R u and Leg free the wknd for Coral Isle? :) –_ and he does it because he feels far braver now, in his fearless daughter’s wake, than how he knows he will feel once the shadows recede and the dawn breaks. He doesn’t expect Thranduil to answer until the morning, so it startles him when his phone buzzes noisily against the counter less than a minute after he sends his missive out.  
  
 _Yes,_ comes the reply. It somehow doesn’t seem enough, and Bard swipes at his phone, eager to send out another note.  
  
 _R u sure bc u r free 2 say no. no pressure  
  
_ Thranduil must have his phone on hand for the reply arrives like a ricocheting bullet.  
  
 _If I didn’t know any better I’d think you don’t really mean to invite. That, or you’re playing hard-to-get.  
  
_ Bard breathes out a laugh.  
  
 _No. Jst pressured by my teenagr. Cnt w8 til Leg bcms 1 2 tor2re u in equal measre.  
  
_ _For now I’ll content myself watching Sigrid run circles around you. What do we bring for the trip?  
  
_ _Nada. We invtd, we r preparing. Jst bring elves.  
  
_ _**savs  
  
_ _**slvs  
  
_ _…You’re hopeless.  
  
_ The children are, of course, ecstatic by the news. Sigrid is at first annoyed that he asked Thranduil _right after_ she left for bed but soon forgives him in that strange, easy way daughters are always ready to do for their fathers. Tilda finishes her breakfast of crispy waffles in record time so that she can hunt for her bathing suit, and Bain starts making a grocery list at the counter as he finishes his grilled cheese-and-tomato. He hands this same list to Bard just as the bus sounds from outside, ready and impatient for any unnecessary morning frivolities.  
  
“Corn-on-the-cob, eggs, tomatoes, onions…chocolate chips?” Bard raises an inquisitive eyebrow at his son. “Also ‘tiny marshmallows, the good kind’?”  
  
“For S’mores, Da!” Bain grins. “Legolas has never had them.”  
  
“Right.” Grocery deliveries had been done earlier in the week to the three stores on the island and he can only hope no one else had had any need for S’mores ingredients, as well as any of the other superfluous items they might need. “Okay.”  
  
“We’ll teach him how to do it, it’ll be perfectly safe.” Bain has always wanted a brother and is as ecstatic about Legolas as Tilda is, although he often tries to downplay it. “Will you get it, Da, please?”  
  
“I will, I will,” Bard promises as the bus honks its horn again. “You’d better get going before you’re left behind.” He looks over his shoulder and calls out. “Tilda? Come on, darlin’, the bus is here!”  
  
He doesn’t really know now how he manages to reach Saturday intact – with a pending regression analysis, child-rearing, and camp-preparing on his plate, as well as just attempting to keep his cool whenever his thoughts stray to Thranduil – but he does. He texts Thranduil little to no details about the trip, only that they meet before daybreak on Saturday morning, which they do. The children lead the way to the Greenleafs’ home at 4:30 AM, bright-eyed and nearly delirious with an electric excitement that never seems to be present on a regular school day. Galion, dressed in his usual ‘uniform’ consisting of a short-sleeved polo and slacks, greets them in the white-lit carport, already at the tail-end of his daily car-polishing ritual.  
  
“They’re still inside, I believe. Just getting ready,” he smiles at them kindly. He doesn’t direct them to enter the house, and Bard respects him for it. He clearly knows how much Thranduil values his privacy. Not that Bard would impose anyway; he’s never stepped inside the Greenleaf home, and doesn’t plan to until Thranduil actually invites him to. _Slow and steady wins the race.  
  
_ “May I ring the doorbell, Da?” Tilda asks, hopping impatiently from foot to foot. She’s already dressed in her rash guards but with an additional hoodie for the nippy pre-dawn air. Bard reaches out and holds her hand to still her.  
  
“No, Tild, it’s way too early to—”  
  
“Bard?” The heavy wooden door swings open noiselessly and reveals Thranduil, for a few seconds a tall, imposing silhouette against the golden light inside, but then he steps into clearer view, and Bard’s chest aches at the sight of him.  
  
“Good morning, Mister Thranduil!”  
  
“Hello, everyone. Sorry about the delay.” Thranduil’s voice is soft as shadow, as though afraid that if he raises the volume he’d wake up half the island. “This one,” he gestures towards Legolas, whom he’s carrying, and who has his face buried in his father’s shoulder, “was in A Mood.”  
  
“Will he be all right?” Sigrid asks, looking slightly worried.  
  
“Of course. He’ll be fine in a bit. He just has to wake up properly. Isn’t that right, Leaf?” Thranduil gives his son an indulgent smile, and Legolas responds with an audible grunt. “That means yes,” he tells Sigrid, who gives a satisfied nod.  
  
“All right,” Bard clears his throat, although it’s only so he can force himself to stop staring at Thranduil so much. His hair, glinting wet from the shower and shockingly pale under the poor light, is falling carelessly into his face as Legolas hitches himself up to gain a tighter hold on his father’s neck. It’s also the first time Bard has seen Thranduil in _shorts_ ( _stretch_ shorts the color of a ripe orange, with an indigo sweatshirt on top, _oh God_ ). He clears his throat once more.  
  
“Have you got everything? Keys, wallet, life insurance?” _Oh God, Bard, shut up.  
  
_ “I believe so. Galion, we’ve got the bags, haven’t we?” When Galion gives the affirmative, Thranduil’s eyes, glinting with cool mischief, rest on Bard’s. “Do I need to notify my next of kin where we’re going, or do you have all our contact information in some waterproof case somewhere?” he deadpans, and Bard has to laugh, feeling his courage rising.  
  
“Don’t be such a big chicken.”  
  
“Far from it.”  
  
“You’ll love it.”  
  
“I will?”  
  
“You will,” Bard says, and this time, all three of his children chime in. They giggle at the coincidence and then start making their way back to the car, whisper-shouting _Last one there is a rotten fish head_ and enjoying the relative freedom the early morning allows. Their laughter echoes along the quiet street like church bells.  
  
“Your children have far too much energy for this hour,” Thranduil almost sounds pained. “I hope this island of yours is at least shark-free.”  
  
“The island will be, but I can’t vouch for the water.”  
  
“ _What?_ ”  
  
“Kidding,” Bard says, although he’s lying. There are definitely sharks in the waters, but only in the deep regions. He doesn’t see the need to tell Thranduil that…at least for now.  Thranduil gives him a side eye laden with suspicion, but Bard returns it with a complete look of innocence. Although tempted to keep teasing his neighbor, he forces himself to get a move on before they end up delaying the trip altogether.  
  
“Let’s go then, just follow my lead.”

 

 


End file.
